The Dutch Mama gave us tulips from Schipol airport when she came to stay with us a couple of months ago. I planted them which, frankly, is where I often fall down in reaping the rewards of botanical presents. They blossomed for a couple of weeks in April/May and I sat on the front steps almost every evening looking at them. And they should be back next year. Hurrah for middle age. This picture goes a little way towards conveying the delightfulness of my tulip crop.
The weekends are killing me at the moment. Last weekend, I went to Cork on Friday night, ran around like mad (sadly not getting to the new Nano Nagle centre cafe for lunch as closed for some Presentation Sisters bash – the bitterness, even the gift shop was closed – no comfort at all to hear that they are never normally closed), came back Saturday night, on Sunday morning I was on baptism duty in the church (completely untraumatic unlike the previous time when some people turned up who had not come to the preparatory meeting the previous Wednesday and I had to run them through the whole thing at speed; it took a lot out of me but our parish priest was unphased). On Sunday afternoon, I went to a friend’s mother’s removal, then went for a quick drink with all of my bookclub (who were also at the removal) then briefly went up to visit my parents-in-law who lived nearby and then decided to visit an old friend of my mother’s of whom I am very fond who also lives nearby. It was nearly 8 by the time I got home from my extended tour of the far side of the city.
This weekend, my sister called to visit Friday evening, on Saturday morning from 10-12 I took Michael and herself to bag packing in Tesco for a school charity. In the afternoon, Daniel had a GAA match (GAA matches all the time at the moment as they try to make up for time lost during the snow) herself went in to town to see an exhibition with her friends (in fairness, not an activity that called for parental support) and Michael and I cycled in to his drama class. On Sunday we cycled down to mass at 10 so that Daniel could get to his GAA match afterwards at 12.15. In the intervening time Mr. Waffle participated in the local community spring clean while herself and myself considered the dubious charms of an animal festival in the city (special cinema screening for dogs at 12.15 – really! A lot of big dogs on view and also various farmyard animals. Hilarious to watch untrained dogs undertaking Crufts like course set up by the DSPCA). Herself then went to a friend’s party in the afternoon and the rest of us went across the city to visit Mr. Waffle’s parents once he and Daniel returned from the match. We had a walk on the pier which was sunny but chilly.
Then it was after 7 and we decided to stop off in town and have pizza for dinner for which exciting activity herself joined us though pointing out that she had already enjoyed pizza that afternoon at the party. Alas.
Every single weekend seems to be exhaustingly full of activity. I feel we may need some re-organising of our lives.
My colleague whose father died last month has, naturally, been inundated by mass cards. He tells me he received one from some friends saying, “Sorry about the death of your ‘father'”. “I have to ask them what they were implying,” he said. This inverted comma for emphasis business must end.
Even though they were exhausted by yesterday’s birthday celebrations, I made my family go out for a walk in the Dublin mountains today. Fortune favoured them and the road to the walk I had planned was closed due to snow.
We went for a mild walk in the woods instead. It was snowy, it was foggy. It was not an enormous success. I said that it reminded me of the set of the play we saw at Christmas and my, extremely literal, husband and son both said, “But the trees on that set were all white.” Walking down the snow in the fog, I said to Daniel, “Listen to the sounds, what do you hear?” “I hear running water and birdsong,” he began and was promptly interrupted by someone shouting in the distance, “Are you taking the piss, Jonathan?”
Some key walk statistics follow.
Time spent complaining about walk: 4 hours
Time spent gathering hats, coats, boots etc for walk: 35 minutes
Time spent complaining about wet socks/trousers: 90 minutes
Time driving to and from the walk: 75 minutes
Time complaining about evil siblings’ snowball throwing: 75 minutes
Time actually spent walking: 75 minutes
And we had to stop at Tesco on the way home to pick up ingredients for Home Ec tomorrow. Oh the humanity.
I am 49 today. Herself arrived home from school yesterday to announce, “Seán in my class thinks you’re a drama queen.” “Why?” I asked. “Because he asked what I was doing for the weekend and I said that we all had to stay at home on Saturday because it’s your birthday. He asked if it was an important one and I said no but I told him that we’re all dreading when you turn 50.”
So, yes, I like to celebrate my birthday, is that bad? Herself spent the afternoon slaving over my favourite brownies. I expect to enjoy them after my birthday dinner. Mr. Waffle got me flowers, a candle (always welcome to me) and a framed print of a picture which I once failed to identify on University Challenge (I pronounced it appealing and he took careful note).
More generally, I had a slightly unsatisfactory day. The boys and I cycled into their drama class. Some evil person punctured Michael’s tyre while they were in there which meant it was flat as a pancake when they emerged and we had to walk home pushing our bikes (“I’m tired” “When will I be able to stop and eat my bun?” “I want to go to the toilet.”). It took a lot out of all of us.
Mild highlight of the day so far was herself walking up to the bike repair shop with me after I got home.
Be not afraid though, because Mr. Waffle and I took a day off work during the week to celebrate my birthday. We went for a walk in Glendalough and had a nice lunch in Powerscourt. Was there snow in the mountains? Yes, there was:
We had to scoot back to Dublin a bit earlier than we would have liked because there were parent-teacher meetings for the boys, but that was satisfactory as well because they seem to be getting on very well which is always a relief to hear.
Furthermore, tomorrow is mother’s day. I am not delighted about it coming hot on the heels of my birthday as I think 48 hours of indulgence is a lot to ask from my family, however, it has put me in a good position to force everyone to go for a walk in the mountains tomorrow. Rejoice.
So I am hoping that 49 will be a good year. My sister is recovering from cancer – she’s gone back to work which is great. I am starting a new job in April – you may congratulate me – and so far I have all of the delight of anticipation and none of the horror of the new job. And surely, I have done enough funerals in the past year that there can’t be too many more to go through this year.
Now, you will have to excuse me because I just heard from the kitchen the magic words, “Someone put the kettle on!” and I think that my birthday cake is approaching.
My religious friend is very associated with the Carmelites, maybe he’s even a lay Carmelite, if there is such a thing (I could google it but I know he will tell me whether I do or not so I am saving energy here) anyhow, he’s very pally with a lot of Carmelites and he heard this great story from a Carmelite nun.
So anyway a Carmelite priest was saying mass for this bunch of Carmelite nuns including this lady in the Carmelite convent. For reasons which are unclear he began to talk about Elizabeth I in his sermon. He got very worked up about her many sins against Ireland and, as his indignation mounted, he said, “Virgin Queen, Virgin Queen? She was no more a virgin than you or I.”