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Mr. Waffle

More Than My Job’s Worth

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Posted in: Mr. Waffle

On the last Saturday of every month, everyone on the street goes out and cleans up all the litter, fallen leaves etc. Every time we do this, Mr. Waffle thinks, not without bitterness, “Here we are, doing the council’s job for them.”

Last weekend, Mr. Waffle was the man designated to pick up the special litter bags from the local council office. As he picked them up, the man behind the counter mused, “It would be great if you could do something over the Christmas holidays.” He added, generously, “We could throw in a couple of bars of chocolate.”

He’s still bitter.

And, lads, this brings us to the end of November. It’s been a marathon; thanks for reading along.

Advent Begins – The Season of Waiting

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Posted in: Boys, Daniel, Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess

Mr. Waffle took Dan to the airport for a fresh Covid test in an abundance of caution (mine). Mr. Waffle got up at 5 in the morning yesterday to book it and then they had to wait two hours for him to take it. Alas. We await hearing.

In continued surprises from Sunday mass, the priest quoted from Emily Dickinson’s “Hope is the thing with feathers” in his sermon in a bid to cheer us all up as we contemplate the next Covid variant (how soon before we run out of letters of the Greek alphabet, depressingly soon by the looks of things?).

In England herself says she is feeling a bit better.

I went into town to do some Christmas shopping. No joy really but town was looking very nice with the Christmas lights up.

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Inspired by Emily, I went into Bewley’s for a cup of tea. More accurately, I joined the queue for tea outside in the freezing cold. When I got to the door, I could not find my mask so I left. As I bitterly put my stuff into my bicycle carrier, didn’t the wretched mask fall from between the pages of the paper? I hummed and hawed but went back and joined the end of the queue and waited and waited. A waitress came out to the frozen pundits on the street and said it would be half an hour for a table. I was committed at this stage. 15 minutes later, her colleague came out and said it would be 20 minutes for a table (ok, I suppose) and as they closed in 20 minutes, there was no longer any point in waiting. I was incandescent with rage. I went to the Queen of Tarts, an old favourite of mine, closed, looked a bit permanently closed, I do hope not. I cycled homewards in the freezing cold and stopped off at a local old reliable cafe. Closing and unable to accommodate me. That’s right, a city of nearly a million people and not a cup of tea to be had. I got home having spent nearly two hours trying to get a cup of tea. Snort.

In other Advent news, my sister gave me an Advent calendar in the form of a box of skin and beauty care. As it was the first day of Advent I pulled it out from under the bed. “Beauty lies within” it announced. “Surprisingly frank,” I thought for a moment. Honestly, could they not have chosen a better slogan? I had to ring her up to find out how I was to use the first item I received, I think it may be a bit sophisticated for me and my beauty regime.

Out and About

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Posted in: Boys, Daniel, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Reading etc.

Mr. Waffle is still sick.

It was a beautiful day. On the way home from mass, Daniel looked at me warily and said, “Please don’t suggest a cycle”. I am afraid that that is exactly what I did.

We met friends in the park who invited us to go to see Eurydice in the Met in the cinema (live streamed from NY to your local picture house). I blithely said yes for me and Mr. Waffle, the boys politely but firmly refused the generous offer. I thought it was the “Orpheus and Eurydice” with tunes but it turns out that it is an original composition. I fear the worst. As Mr. Waffle said about these much loved friends of ours, “It’s not just that they love opera but they love hard opera.” A three hour treat for December.

We had a lovely cycle. Even the boys didn’t hate it.

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I peeled off and went to the museum to see the Eileen Gray exhibition, sending the boys on home on the basis that they had suffered enough. The exhibition was mildly interesting. I’m more of a good mahogany furniture kind of person than a modernist so not really for me but I could see it was good, if you see what I mean. Apparently she left Ireland in horror after they did up her family home. I mean, you can see where she was coming from. What an absolutely horrific thing to happen to a perfectly nice square Georgian house.

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I was quite taken by the practicality of some of her more famous pieces. The chair that acknowledges that people sit to one side.

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The “practical for breakfast in bed” table:

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She had an extraordinary life and lived until 98 working away into the 70s. She lived long enough to see her furniture and ideas come back into fashion and in some ways, she’s the godmother of open plan living (though she seemed to have moved away from that in later life). Interesting.

Not Waving But Drowning

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Posted in: Boys, Daniel, Mr. Waffle

Mr. Waffle continues to be ill. He decided that it would not be conducive to his recovery to stand in the middle of a windy field for a couple of hours so he delegated to me the job of taking Dan to his hurling match in west Dublin. “You’ve a beautiful day for it,” Mr. Waffle thrilled as we headed off.

We arrived and schlepped for miles from the car park to the designated pitch. No sooner did we arrive than the rain started. I discovered to my horror that although we were instructed to assemble at 1.15 the match was only starting at 2. I trudged gloomily around the pitch regretting that I had neglected to bring any kind of hood and discovering that my boots were not waterproof. Truly mine eyes have seen the abomination of desolation.

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There were 6 subs and, to my relief, Dan was in the starting 15. I spent a good while watching number 24 before I realised that my son was playing up front (normally he’s a back) in the number 6 shirt. Half time arrived mercifully quickly. Sadly, it turned out only to be a water break (quarter time, if you will). I continued my trudging. The heavens absolutely opened with that kind of rain that bounces off the ground and back up your trousers.

I telephoned my sister and she asked how wet I was. This is the photo I sent her. Very wet. Apparently it was a lovely day in Cork.

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Daniel was having a great match but he got knocked down and the coach ran over, patted him on the back and came to the sideline reassuring me that it was only a hard shoulder to the head. I was not reassured. Later he got a hurl to the head (they were all wearing helmets but still) and eventually, about 5 minutes before the end, he was subbed off somewhat to my relief as he is absolutely fearless on the field and I wanted him to finish alive.

I was very proud as we went back to the car and people kept coming up to congratulate him on a great match, sadly though, not great enough as, in the end, they lost by six points but, honestly, it felt closer than that.

We were both glad to get home.

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In other news, I bought logs from a garage and on my way out, accidentally blocked a middle aged woman in high vis and lycra who was marching determinedly in the rain, clearly getting her steps in. She gave me the evil eye, as well she might, and I realised it was the leader of the opposition. This is the kind of glamour that west Dublin offers. Let’s have your own celebrity encounters.

War and Peace

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Posted in: Boys, Daniel, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Princess

The issue of bathroom towels is a vexed one in this house.

Firstly by way of background, my husband’s family are obsessed with towels. If we are staying in self-catering accommodation the very first question is always, “Do we have to bring our own towels?”

We are not a family who uses a towel once and puts in the wash. Each towel gets several uses. Here is what happens. Mr. Waffle comes to the bathroom. He deems all of the towels in use inadequate and gets a fluffy new one from the hot press. He does not put a towel in the laundry basket. I come to the bathroom last and the place is swathed in damp towels. I have no objection to people getting fresh towels (particularly, I suppose when those people do all the laundry in the house) but I do object to people not throwing the used damp towels in the laundry basket.

Over the summer I went on strike and stopped putting used towels in the laundry basket. Things began to get unbearable until herself took over. As she said, “Please stop this war, it’s always the children who suffer the most.”

But more recently, all seems to be well. A bit baffling. I said as much to Daniel in the car on the way to training. “Oh,” said he, “Michael puts the towels in the laundry basket now, but I saw him doing it and made him put out a fresh one because I know that’s what you like.” I fear I may not have been entirely clear.

And that, people, is the kind of content you are likely to get for the remainder of the month. Hold on to your hats.

That’s My Girl

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Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess

Mr. Waffle has put herself on his credit card for emergencies. To activate the card so that she could book her flight home for Christmas she had to use it in a shop. Mr. Waffle told her to buy herself breakfast. He fondly imagined that she would spend a fiver on a cup of tea and some toast in a greasy spoon. When he got the bill, he discovered she’d spent £28 in the Pain Quotidien. Truly, she is her mother’s daughter.