Mr. Waffle

The meeting of the logistics committee was suspended for an ad hoc emergency session of the vomit committee.
On having to abandon our discussion on what was happening during the following week to deal with Daniel getting sick.

Sure, as long as it’s fair trade recycled non-bleach eco-cotton.
On being told by his eco-terrorist wife that she would like one of these.

I have to struggle against terrible prejudice.
On being told by the Princess’s teacher that for her majesty’s birthday, his wife should make a smallish cake for the class. He makes the cakes here.

Ah excellent, competency based child-rearing; this will stand her in good stead, if the current interview fad lasts – tell me, what did you do to achieve the result described.

On being told about an interesting article (via this entertaining blog) which says that we should be specific in the praise we give our children, e.g. not you played really well but that was a great pass you made in the second half that led to a goal.

They must be very excited in the Canaries.

On being told by his wife that the Spanish government plans that all major Spanish cities would be only two hours by rail from Madrid and that no place in the country would be more than an hour by rail from a major city (information which she had on the authority of the 22 year old trainee who clearly hadn’t thought it through either).

Not only have you endorsed this weird new religion, but you’ve made her its high priestess.

On discovering that despite the fact that the Easter bunny never came to Cork or Dublin, he is now a feature of our lives brought home by the Princess from school and necessitating a panicked run to the video shop to buy up egg shaped sweets at 10.30 pm on Easter Saturday.

I guess, [pause] I mean, I suppose.

On being asked whether he thinks our daughter has started speaking in an American accent because we let her watch too much television.

There’s never a good time to start toilet training but I would have thought 3,000 metres up in the Alps would be a particularly bad time.

On being told by his loving wife that we really must start toilet training Michael now as he goes into the bathroom and takes off his nappy when he wants to do a wee. Have I mentioned that we’re going skiing tomorrow for a week?  There will be no blogging until we get back unless all the snow melts. How much are we looking forward to the 6 hour train ride?  Yes, that much.

I am constantly in search of presents for Mr. Waffle because he is difficult to buy for and Christmas and birthdays come round every year with monotonous regularity.

A couple of months ago, I saw that he had cut out from the paper a book review so, stealthily, I went to the bookshop and ordered the book.   I paid for it, I had it gift wrapped and I stashed it in the bottom of the wardrobe.

A short time ago, we were going through our piles of stuff on the desk and I innocently picked up the review and said: “ooh what’s this?”

“It’s a review of a book set in Brussels and I thought it looked interesting” he said.  Cue much inner glee and outward indifference on my part.  “But you can throw it out, I looked at some sample pages of the book on the internet and it’s really dull”.

He got it today anyway and expressed suitable (but, presumably, utterly feigned) enthusiasm.

It probably wouldn’t be so bad, if he didn’t keep buying me perfect presents.

Him (wrestling children): Wonders of the peninsula later?

Me: OK.

Him: What would you like?

Me: The stockpiled rubbish town speciality.

Small prize, if you can work out what I will be having for dinner.