belgianwaffle

Mr. Waffle

Fascinating flooring


Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess

If you consult the pictures of our infant daughter on my photoblog, you will see that she is a messy eater. We have wooden floors which really should be revarnished so the constant addition of water and random food to the floor surface is not ideal. I suppose it wouldn’t be ideal under any circumstances but with the floors needing revarnishing, things do tend to leave marks (we have a trail of vaseline handprints on our bedroom floor from when the Princess managed to get hold of a tub of the stuff and smear it all over herself).

I thought that I would go to IKEA and get a cheap, tasteful, washable floor covering which we could put on the dining room floor. I got to IKEA and, you know what, tasteful and washable don’t really go together. So I thought that I would get a cheapish rug which we could dispose of when the Princess learned to eat without scattering debris. IKEA is not as cheap as all that. The rugs in the size I wanted were about 600 euros. Imagine then my delight when I found one for 80 euros. True, it looked a bit like underlay, but it looked robust also. I snapped it up.

I brought it home. I explained my reasoning to Mr. Waffle over the phone.

“Hmm,” he said, “I don’t know if a rug is what we need, but for 8 euros, I suppose you can’t go wrong”.
“Umm, no, not 8 euros, 80.”

Horrified silence.  “You shouldn’t have told me that. I mean all we really needed was a square of lino for under her high chair”.

“Actually, it’s called vinyl flooring these days”

When he came home, he took one look at the rectangular, dark green rug and said “Ah, the 80 euro putting green”

And, inevitably, it’s a bit of a disaster, whereas before debris could be swept up or mopped up, now we have to get out the hoover after every meal.  Also, given that it has the texture of underlay, it is a little rough on the royal knees.  I may have to take it up, I suppose what I really need is a square of lino.

Comments
Locotes

on 30 April 2004 at 18:16

It’s true. Never correct the other half in matters of cash. It’s safer. That’s assuming of course you keep the accounts under tight lock and key. It’s safer.
Oh well – I suppose you meant well eh?
😉

belgianwaffle

on 03 May 2004 at 14:59

You two want me to deceive my husband…never!

With it


Posted in: Mr. Waffle

Present from sister-in-law the publishing exec. It’s a book on tape – abridged version of Daphne du Maurier classic and most enjoyable. Sat in the car listening to it after I’d parked.  The ultimate accolade.  May rush out and buy “Hungry Hill” which is supposed to be excellent and has the added (enormous) advantage that it is set in Cork.

It also makes a refreshing change from the World Service (as the Glam Potter points out, it’s really designed for people whose first language is not English and in consequence they always speak very slowly and enunciate very clearly and, if your first language actually is English, they will, eventually, drive you – slowly and clearly – insane), Radio Contact and Bel RTL (can’t really be bothered finding a link, I know you’re not going to look) which are my usual staples in the car.  Though, an unexpected advantage of the Radio Contact service was that I was recently able to wow Mr. Waffle with my knowledge of what the young people are listening to.  We were looking at a list of mobile ringtones you could download (just out of interest, you know, we don’t get out much any more etc.) and he had never heard any of the offerings whereas I was able to hum most of them.  If God is a DJ, tum ti tum..

Hairy


Posted in: Belgium, Mr. Waffle

You may have noticed that the Princess is bald.  Go on, have a look at the photos.  This comes from me.  I was bald for ages.  I was on the phone to my mother the other day and I asked her when I got hair and she said pensively “well, you certainly had hair by the time you were four”.  Not really as comforting as it might be.

And my hair grows very slowly.  I had my first haircut when I was 12 and it only just reached my shoulders.  This is true.  No really.  Even now, I only get my hair cut three times a year. This is partly because my hair grows slowly and partly because each visit to the hairdresser’s is fraught with trauma.  The following are my fears in order of priority:

My hair will look dreadful when I emerge blinking in the sunlight (almost always realised)

Someone will see me sitting in the window of the hairdressers wearing a stupid overall and with my wet hair pulled back from my face looking like death warmed up (funnily enough, never realised, not even when I was living in Cork and stepping out the door normally entailed running into a dozen of my mother’s closest friends).

I will have to chat to the hairdresser (almost always realised – not you might think, an enormous problem for a talker like me, but for reasons I cannot really explain, I always end up lying to them: when I was working, I felt that they wouldn’t be interested in my job (or worse, be too interested and want something explained or sorted) so I pretended to be between jobs and now that I’m unemployed, I feel that they might think that I’m the wife of a rich businessman living it high on the hog with no obligations so I sort of invent occupations for myself; I then spend the time in the chair in an advanced state of tension trying both to keep my story consistent and to see what the back of my head looks like).

How will I hand over my tip (I mean to give it to this person for whom I have gone to the trouble of fabricating a whole false existence and with whose wedding plans I am now very familiar seems insulting, like tipping a friend of a friend; however not to tip is, I know, an even greater insult so I hand over my tip at the cash desk and mutter “that’s for x who cut my hair” and feel nervously that I’m doing the wrong thing).

It will cost a small fortune (almost always realised except for the time I got my head shaved.  That only cost a fiver but the effect was not happy.  I remember going to the pub that night with my then boyfriend: I had no hair and a rotten cold so I looked marvellous – bald and snuffly.  I said “I look terrible”.  “No, no” he said reassuringly “you look really cool – with the hair and the sniff, you could be a drug dealer”.  Fantastic, that relationship was clearly doomed.  It was also sporting that haircut that I went out with three friends of mine who were sisters.  We bumped into a friend of their’s who said “finally, I get to meet your little brother”.  “Um, no actually I’m a GIRL, unrelated and finished school” I said bitterly).

So today, I went to get my hair cut.  I haven’t had it cut since December so, sadly, I realised it was time. I went to this place my friend F recommended.  She said that this place was good if you want to look like a bourgeois Belgian “you know, shortish, blondish”. In my heart of hearts, I really do want to look like a bourgeois Belgian so I took myself off to Olivier Dachkin on the Rue de Tongres which apparently is the original branch of the chain where the great Olivier himself snips from time to time.
When I arrived, this very nice male hairdresser came up and discussed what style I might go for, it was all going suspiciously well.  “And of course” said he “you will need highlights”. “Um no, I wasn’t really thinking of highlights” “But you must, it will look wonderful”.  He was kind of convincing, I was weak, I said ok and sat for half an hour with tin foil on my hair. The girl who did them said “it’s very original that you’ve gone for these wide streaks”. My heart sank, “original”, does that sound bourgeois Belgian to you?

Downstairs, I saw that my nice male hairdresser appeared to be working exclusively on little old ladies, I further noticed that unlike all the other hairdressers, he was not wearing a red shirt with Olivier Dachkin on it and he was bossing people around. Could it be that he was the great Olivier himself?  Well whoever he was he abandoned me and consigned me to a woman who gave me an alright haircut, I confess, but I wasn’t really in the mood to appreciate the quality of the cut because I was transfixed by the zebra stripes on my head. The man who may or may not be the great Olivier came over and ruffled my hair and said “isn’t it fabulous?” I smiled cravenly.

Tonight I asked Mr. Waffle what he thought. “Very nice” he said without hesitation.  “What makes you say that?” I asked. “Fear”. I see. Oh well, it’s all over until August, though I suspect that those highlights will grow out in a very exciting fashion.

A Dad is Fab


Posted in: Mr. Waffle

Today is Mr. Waffle’s birthday.  I got him a present from the Princess (yes, this is the kind of person I have become..).  A book entitled, as above, “A dad is fab”.  It’s got cartoon drawings of a father and daughter team.  Mr Waffle sat on the bed and read it to her, it went like this:

Un papa, c’est sportif (picture of Da and little boy playing with a ball, little girl watching)

Un papa, c’est courageux (Da wading into river to get ball, little boy and girl watching)

Un papa, ça sait tout faire (Da fixing bike with little boy, little girl watching them sadly over the wall)

Un papa, ça te donne de bonnes choses à manger (Da giving little boy chips – this is a Belgian publication – little girl watching them sadly while eating apple)

Un papa, ça te porte quand tu es fatigué (Da carrying asleep little boy, little girl watching them sadly)

Un papa, ̤a fait des petits fr̬res et des petits soeurs (family of four being regarded sadly by little girl Рat this stage some serious eyebrow raising from Mr. Waffle)

And then it finishes off with the little girl saying “And my Daddy, he left, and that’s a pity, because I am a wonderful little girl”

Outstanding, I have acquired for him a sad little book about a dead or possibly divorced father as a birthday present from his daughter. What an excellent start to his birthday.

Comments
belgianwaffle

on 19 March 2004 at 20:34

Hmm. Not sure I would call it genius as such, but ta for the sweetie.

Mr Waffle

on 20 March 2004 at 09:06

It’s true the ending of the book was a bit surprising, and we might skip that bit when we read it to the Princess. But it was a lovely thought to get a book which said nice things about fathers, and I’m really touched.

More birthday


Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Princess

I like to publicise my birthday. Otherwise, how can you expect anyone to remember it? Nevertheless, I was surprised by the record number of people who remembered my birthday last Wednesday. It was non-stop emails and cards. Even our babysitter brought me flowers. I was most pleased. In this pantheon of virtue, I would like to give special mention to my brother who replied to my birthday reminder email as follows:

“Of course I knew today was your birthday, it’s deeply embedded in my subconscious, it’s a survival instinct, sort of like the way you instinctively know not to jump off the top of a building.”

Thursday and Friday, however, were grim. The Princess came down with a rotten cold and was very miserable. She likes those around her to share her feelings so it was pretty miserable all round. At night she couldn’t sleep because of her cough. Our little baby sounded like she had a 40 a day habit. She spectacularly threw up both Calpol and Nurofen (which, as the drier has died again, has incidentally created a mound of wet bedclothes). Since I was trapped indoors with a sick baby, Mr. Waffle went to the chemist to get baby remedies. He came home clutching two packets of suppositories. The Princess felt that this was the final indignity and screamed accordingly. However, they did the job, her temperature came down and her cough eased. A bizarre, and not entirely unwelcome, side effect is that her dirty nappies smell of eucalyptus.

Saturday morning and the Princess was largely better. Mr. Waffle kindly? inded her all morning while I slept the sleep of the just, having had a sick baby in my arms for about 48 hours on the trot. At lunch time, we had the following conversation:

Me: Would you like to take off this afternoon and do something on your own?

Him: Um, no. Do you like surprises?

Me (warily): Good surprises or bad surprises?

Him: How would you like to go shopping for the afternoon with your friend D?

The doorbell rang and there she was having flown over for the weekend for my birthday. How cool was that? She came clutching gifts for me and the Princess. She got the most beautiful little dress for the Princess, have spent half an hour looking at it open-mouthed this morning. My scarf is very nice too, I hasten to add, but the dress is phenomenal.

That evening the three of us went out for dinner. Only it wasn’t the three of us, it was loads of people that Mr. Waffle had arranged to have there as a birthday surprise. I had a wonderful time and made a spectacular present haul. Excellent.

My evening was, however,?overshadowed by the knowledge that I have NOTHING planned for his birthday on Friday.? I am now paralysed by fear. A friend suggested that I should give him a moral victory. I passed this on to him in jest. He is distressingly taken with it. Yes, how about we do more recycling (he is very “save the planet”) or buy the Princess another sling? The Princess hates sling things but Mr. Waffle fancies himself as modern parent with a baby in a sling…every time we pass another father with a baby in a sling, he sighs in a pointed way (a difficult sigh to master). For reasons that have never been entirely clear to me, he is convinced that I have put her off the sling.? This is most unfair, I am just against making her cry when it’s not strictly necessary (yes, sometimes it is, see paragraph on suppositories above). I am rapidly arriving at the conclusion that I am not a good enough wife to give him something he actually wants. Probably a book and a CD then.

Birthday


Posted in: Mr. Waffle

Today is my birthday. So far my haul has included presents from my loving spouse and my sister. Not bad. Am most pleased. My mother rang earlier this morning to assure me that the parental present will be in Cork when I go back at the end of the month. And I suppose, in all fairness, I can’t expect anything from my brother until he gets something from me (his birthday was February 5 and still he has received nothing from his loving sister).

Last year, my birthday was on a Monday and I was eight months pregnant and we didn’t really do much. I was mildly bitter about that and I was anxious, for his own sake, that Mr. Waffle wouldn’t let something similar happen this year. I wondered whether he would like me to approach our babysitter. No. Now our babysitter is Polish and her French is not great so communication with her can be difficult, particularly over the phone. I am a champion communicator (or a non-stop talker, if you like) so we get along fine with a combination of sign language (ok, this is challenging over the phone) and guess work. But I knew that Mr. Waffle, who is the strong silent type, would not be in a position to book her alone. I will not conceal from you that I was concerned that another evening in was looming. This morning, however, he revealed that he had asked a Polish colleague in the office to call her. I was pleased. Firstly, because we are going out to my favourite restaurant in Brussels and secondly, because it is not his thing to approach colleagues and ask them to phone his babysitter. He is reserved, whereas I was once graphically, but not unfairly, described by a colleague as the kind of person who will tell her life story to the person beside her at the bus stop.

I see that Fluid Pudding feels that her husband’s birthday may not have gone as well as she might have hoped. While, I trust that Mr. Waffle’s birthday will not feature the general awfulness that bedevilled Snickerdoodle’s, the fact that he has given me an excellent present and arranged a fab evening out does put me on my mettle. Alas, his birthday is Friday week, so it’s not like he’ll have forgotten the efforts he made for mine by the time it rolls round. Furthermore, he is IMPOSSIBLE to buy presents for. We had the following conversation last night:

Me: What would you like for your birthday?

Him: Well, you know I read this article in the Observer the other week, I meant to keep it for you actually..

Me: Fantastic, don’t worry about it, I can find it online, I’ll get it, what does it say?

Him (sheepishly): Well, it’s just this guy saying that really at his age, he doesn’t need presents and anything he wants, he can buy himself. In fact has already bought himself. You really don’t have to buy me anything..

Blah.

Thierrry

on 10 March 2004 at 22:33

Happy Birthday then !!!
(^_^)

Locotes

on 12 March 2004 at 13:06

Ah jaysus, apologies for missing your day. Well Happy Birthday to you. Hope you had a good one. 🙂
Ok, so even though you already got some presents from himself, I think it should only be fair that you follow his lead and get your own gift. Anything you really need right now?
(my own gift….err….it’s in the post!)

belgianwaffle

on 16 March 2004 at 15:25

Thank you one and all for kind birthday wishes. Particular gratitude to Locotes for not one but two sweeties…good present suggestion also.