belgianwaffle

Ireland

Alas


Posted in: Cork, Dublin, Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

Things are not going well. On Wednesday my 94 year old father fell at home. There was no one else in the house. He inadvertently turned off his mobile phone in the excitement so it was about an hour before my brother came home and found him. He seemed alright. The next day, Thursday, he got up and then he got stuck in the shower. His GP came round (now retired, old buddy of my Dad’s though much younger and has basically, as far as I can see, kept my father as his sole patient to tend to his needs) and said he suspected a broken pelvis and sent him off to the hospital by ambulance.

My brother went in with him. He enjoyed the usual on a trolley experience in A&E. I spoke to my father on his mobile phone. He was taken off for x-ray. My brother went home. I considered getting to Cork for the weekend once Mr. Waffle got back from Luxembourg where he had gone for work on Wednesday. The hospital went into lock down because they had a Corona virus case. My father’s mobile phone ran out of charge. That evening I rushed home, fed the boys and then drove for miles to collect herself from her friend’s school where he had been acting in the school play. Something by Harold Pinter. Honestly, notions. She quite enjoyed it, thanks for asking. Possibly the last outing before Corona virus shuts down all the schools.

On Friday morning, I woke up with a sore neck. I was stuck in the pose of a tortoise with neck jutting out of its shell. I have been here before. I limped around the house in agony and unable to bend. Herself said she was a bit snuffly and asked, hopefully, should she stay home as a friend of a friend living about 50 kms away had Corona virus. I sent her in. I limped in to work (unable to cycle, obviously). I sneezed on the tram and everyone around moved away in a marked manner. Good tip for anyone who would like a bit more space on public transport. At work, in a disturbing development, the only position in which I felt comfortable was hunched over my keyboard typing.

My sister spent Friday trying to get updates on my father. He spent the day phone free, visitor free in A&E on a trolley while the hospital dealt with its Corona virus problem by sending 60 staff into self-isolation, which is not great if you’re 94 or, indeed, any age.

Meanwhile, on Friday night herself was in her short film which was being screened as part of the Dublin film festival. Her father was only getting home from Luxembourg at 8.30 and could not attend, her aunt was supposed to come from Cork but was stuck in Cork on high alert for my father, her brothers were supposed to come but a friend of theirs from school was organising pizza and a film for another friend of theirs who is having chemotherapy and has stopped school for a bit (chemo, Corona virus, bit of both?) and they wanted to go, so I felt that they should and they could see the film another time. Her cousin and aunt from Dublin were coming. As we arrived at the cinema, her Dublin aunt texted that they were stuck in traffic. I sent herself scampering off to sit with her friends and sat near the front as I had forgotten my glasses (look, I had a lot on). I quite enjoyed the short film as it featured my first born and many of her friends. I enjoyed most of the other shorts screened as well. Aunt and cousin arrived but I did not see them, alas, as they arrived a bit late and had to leave early.

We had originally planned to have pizza as a big group after the screening but circumstances beyond everyone’s control meant that there were just a pair of us – myself and herself. But it’s an ill wind and it meant that we were able to drive out to the airport and collect her father rather than leave. My sister texted to say that the hospital had finally managed to get my father on to a ward 36 hours after being admitted with (it transpired) crushed vertebrae rather than a broken pelvis (a good news story, basically). Later I picked the boys up after their evening out. Did they have fun? They did. Did they have any trouble finding their friend’s house in the dark (they had to go alone on foot as I was at the film)? One did and one did not. Was there any reason why they would chose to travel separately through the mean streets in the dark given that they were going to the same place? Nobody told them they were to travel together. Was it not obvious? It was not. Anyway, in small world stories, Daniel (who was the one who got lost) ran into a friend from his GAA team who was out walking with his father. The father knew Dan’s friend’s father because they had gone to the same school and grown up on the same road and was able to escort Daniel safely to his destination. Big city, small community.

There was a bit of consternation on Friday as the nurse said to my sister that my father was cognitively impaired. He wasn’t when he went in on Thursday. However, I managed to talk to a nurse this afternoon (Saturday) who was pretty helpful and said that he had had a free and frank exchange of views with his consultant that morning about his medication and that he was perusing the papers my sister had delivered to the hospital and which had wended their way to his room. The nurse charged his phone for him and he called me about an hour ago. Mostly to say that he needed my sister to call him so that he could instruct her to bring various things in to the hospital for him; partly to check whether my brother had got off on his skiing holiday (he had with some misgivings); and partly to complain loudly about the quality of nursing care compared to in his day (which I’m sure was gratefully noted by the overworked staff on the premises). So cognitively he seems fine, if grumpy. Apparently, they are discharging people, Corona virus or no, so I am hopeful he might be able to move to some kind of step down facility early next week.

Meanwhile next Saturday, we are supposed to go skiing en famille ourselves. I appreciate that this is a bit #mymiddleclasshell but between my poor father possibly at death’s door (though things have improved on that front over the past 24 hours); my tortoise like posture and general misery; Corona virus diverse alarms; and a number of logistical difficulties on the accommodation front (we are in a chalet with friends of friends and there have been some unfortunate miscommunications including my brother being in and then out again, he is currently out but has found somewhere else to stay – he’s going for a week with friends this week and family next, isn’t it well for him?), I can’t say I’m looking forward to it as much as I was when we booked it last autumn.

Finally, finally in my litany of complaint and woe, regular readers will remember that I am in the church baptism group. The parish priest has taken it upon himself to have a display in the church on what each church group does. Our group was not enthused; we all have jobs to hold down and plenty to do otherwise. But one of our number organised us all to do pictures. I paid herself good money to paint two of the six symbols of baptism for me and Michael kindly dropped them around to the woman up the road who is on half a dozen church committees and undertook to drop them into the parish office. I couldn’t help to put them up in the church as I was collecting herself from her Pinter play on the other side of the city on display night but surely now our work was done. Not a bit of it, next up, we each had to lead the Stations of the Cross on different dates. I felt myself both theologically and practically unable to do so and said so. Surely this was the end of it? No, this morning a message arrives saying each of us had to turn up at a different mass over the next week and show off the stand. I am not pleased. With all the other things going on, this Greek chorus of pings from the baptism Whatsapp group was not what I needed. I am, frankly, peeved. This could yet tip me over the edge into godlessness. Herself would be delighted as I’ve told her she has to keep going to mass until she’s 18 and she is exploring all avenues for an earlier exit.

Anyone else got any news or have I absorbed it all?

A Low Point


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

It’s been stormy. Our recycling bin blew over and the contents got wet. “Did you put them in the black bin?” I asked Mr. Waffle. “That would have been a terrible waste,” said he. Then he added, defiantly, “I dried them out by spreading them over the Aga.” I was not pleased. Was it for this that I spent my children’s inheritance?

The weather has been quite awful all month. Michael and Daniel spent much of their mid-term break holed up in the house (herself has an elaborate series of ongoing social engagements which mean she touches down in our sphere but rarely) so today Mr. Waffle and I forced them out for a walk on the pier in Dun Laoghaire after visiting his mother. They were very good despite the fact that it hailed on us. Good God in heaven.

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I suppose snow is next.

Rainy Saturday


Posted in: Dublin, Family, Hodge, Ireland

We were all in reasonably good form this morning. Yesterday evening I had said that we were going for a walk in the mountains to look at the snow. This announcement was greeted with limited enthusiasm. Even I had second thoughts overnight and was contemplating getting out of bed early without truly looking forward to it and only sustained by the reflection that we would enjoy it in retrospect. I was awoken at 9ish by rain dashing against the bedroom window and the glad tidings that it was too wet for our walk were conveyed to the children by Mr. Waffle while I sat up in bed with my book.

I was summoned from my bed at 10 by indignant shouts from herself. The cat had got sick on her bed. One of the joys of adulthood is cleaning up cat vomit, I find. Normally this falls to Mr. Waffle’s lot but he was out getting bread so I was the chosen victim. Later, leaving the boys in the thrall of their electronic devices, Mr. Waffle, the Princess and I braved the rain and went to breakfast in a local cafe.

On our return we brought all the children to town to acquire new hiking boots (when will their feet stop growing?), a camp bed (can only be an improvement on the air mattress, surely), more candles and some Magic the Gathering Cards for the boys (if you don’t know, you’re better off). We got sodden but it was speedy. Then we came home and were still back in time to drop the cat vomit soiled duvet to the dry cleaners (the hilariously named “Day and Night” cleaners which closes at four). Then we came in, lit the fire and battened down the hatches. It’s been delightful.

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How’s your own Storm Dennis day going?

An Attempt at Redress or a Vignette from a Wednesday Evening


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

I went to a colleague’s father’s removal after work. Having dutifully sympathised with my colleague, I saw that there was an Aldi next door to the funeral home which was pretty handy as I had no plan for dinner. I graced it with my presence and picked up the ready-made lasagne (I’ve had worse). As I was going towards the till, I saw a bowl of hyacinths and picked them up as well.

When I got to the check-out, the queue was enormous. A man with two mountainous trolleys let me pass ahead of him with my two items. The hyacinths caused massive confusion and the assistant disappeared for ages into the back of the shop while I made apologetic grimaces to the kind humanitarian who let me pass ahead of him.

The hyacinths are blooming now and smell delightful. Every time I see them, I say a prayer for my colleague’s deceased father and also the man who let me pass him out at the Aldi check-out.

Election Fever


Posted in: Ireland

We have been canvassed. It was all very thrilling and, to prove that canvassing definitely works, I changed my preference after encountering various candidates. My favourite was a candidate from a smaller party who turned up on our doorstep and met herself. In fairness, although acknowledging that she didn’t have a vote, he engaged with enthusiasm. He was ready with his climate change patter but she was interested in his party’s policy on penal reform (don’t ask me). While we had the distinct impression that his party’s policy was being made up on the hoof on our doorstep, I was much more positively disposed to him after his visit. And he might even get elected – still early days.

I can tell you, it’s all very exciting here at the moment and even people with zero previous interest in politics are glued to the count.

Anois Teacht an Earraigh*


Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland

Today is my mother’s birthday. I thought about her a lot today.

I went to Cork for 24 hours. I brought my bike with me. Somehow I always forget how hilly it is. When I use the Cork bikes rental bike scheme, I tend to stay in the very centre of town but if you venture outside even a small bit, it’s all up hill and down dale. This brings its problems (my parents’ house is halfway up a hill, I walked up it) but also its joys (I freewheeled down). I cycled out to the cemetery which google maps described as a ten minute cycle from my parents’ house. Optimistic.

I bought a St Brigid’s cross from an enterprising young man who was selling them in town for two euros a pop and put it on my mother’s grave. She’d probably have preferred daffodils but they would have been unlikely to last as well.

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It was a beautiful afternoon and felt very springlike after a long miserable winter. I had a wander around the graveyard and enjoyed seeing the 19th century monuments to various Cork families whose names are still part of the life of the city: Sisks, Cantillons, Suttons. Close to my mother’s grave is this monument to a man who died rescuing an old lady at the railway station in Kilmallock. As my mother grew up in Kilmallock, I like to think that she might have known the story even if it was in the 1890s. I presume it made quite a stir at the time.

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I also enjoyed this rather notiony grave monument erected by public subscription.

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It may not be apparent from the picture but they’ve gone for Ogham script on the tablet. A challenge for those of us not as up on ancient celtic scripts as we might be.

I had seen Fr Matthew, Apostle of Temperance and the man who established the graveyard in the Crawford Gallery earlier in the day.

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I dutifully inspected his grave in the afternoon.

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On my way back to the house, I passed close by a building which I had often seen from North Main Street and my father told me was called, I think, Callnan’s folly (although the internet returns no matches which makes me dubious). It was the centrepiece of pleasure gardens, now long gone. It is a bit underwhelming close up.

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I had quite enjoyed my trip to the gallery earlier in the day. The sculpture gallery was very perky in the sunlight. I admired the Dead Christ who had scared the living daylights out of me when I was a child. Cissie (who minded me) had taken me to see him in the South Chapel; due to the pretty impressive marble work, Cissie’s turn for drama and my own imperfect understanding, I was under the impression that it was the actual dead Jesus encased in marble. This theologically unsound position made me refuse ever to go back. I was extremely puzzled and a tiny bit unnerved many years later when I saw the exact same statue in St. Theresa’s Church in Clarendon Street in Dublin. It was only relatively recently I discovered that Hogan made several versions. I won’t be fooled if I ever end up in Basilica of St. John The Baptist in Newfoundland.

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I raided my parents’ house for some Agatha Christies for Michael who expressed an interest in reading more of them having had a couple from the library. I picked up some Arthur C. Clarke as well – my mother’s copies, she loved science fiction – and more in hope than in expectation that any of us are really going to read them, some Chekhov short stories (also my mother’s, she was a big fan of the Russians, she had eclectic tastes).

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*”Anois Teacht an Earraigh” is the first line of a very famous Irish language poem that everyone in the country had to learn in school. My mother used to quote it at this time of year. The line means “Now, Spring is Coming” and the poem is a celebration of the start of spring and St. Brigid’s day, February 1, my mother’s birthday.