Mr. Waffle

Early in December, the Princess announced that Saint Nicolas would be coming to our house on December 6. I had thought that since it was 5 years since we last lived in Belgium he might have left the scene but, apparently not. He brought chocolate Santas for herself and Daniel and a chocolate Santa and a packet of cream crackers for Michael. Before the children came downstairs, Mr. Waffle saw the cream crackers and put them away in the cupboard on the basis that Saint Nicolas had made a mistake. In vain, I argued that Saint Nicolas knew Michael. It was only when Michael collapsed in tears on receiving his chocolate Santa (“Saint Nicolas knows that I don’t like chocolate”), that I was vindicated. I flew to the cupboard and threw up the sash open the doors and gave the packet of cream crackers to a delighted Michael. Daniel didn’t like his chocolate Santa either, unfortunately, and there was, as he pointed out, nothing else for him. All I can say is that Santa Claus better deliver on December 25th. The Princess, meanwhile, took custody of all chocolate Santas.

Even as I write, a plum pudding is sitting steaming on the hob where it has been for several days at this point. I just stuck in a knife and it is still not coming out clean. I have made cranberry and orange sauce. We have purchased the Holly Bough and the RTE Christmas Guide. The Princess is half-way through sticking cloves into an orange.

I found this pointed note on some biscuits this evening:

I have ordered a turkey from the butcher with some trepidation. He says to bring it back to him if it doesn’t fit in the oven and he will cut off its legs. My parents-in-law are coming to us for Christmas dinner but they are very light eaters. My sister-in-law (who with her husband was due to come also but now cannot as she is unwell – but on the mend – in London) has pointed out to me, rightly, I fear, that if I am hoping that my esteemed parents-in-law will take some home with them in a Tupperware bowl, I can think again.

We have begun practising Christmas hymns with the church choir. We have visited the moving crib which is startling. It features a series of scenes from the bible but also, a stuffed dog which, when alive, apparently rescued three people from the Liffey.

We are having drinks on Sunday afternoon. If I know you and you were not invited, I am sorry for the oversight, please come.

On Saturday, we are going to get the Christmas tree. When I was a child, my parents would never let us put up the tree until Christmas Eve. The strain of waiting nearly killed us. I remembered, year after year, pointing out all the other people who had trees while we were still waiting anxiously. I am kinder to my children but they are not one bit grateful having been pushing hard for a tree since early December. Our road now has loads of trees up and they look gorgeous.

I have bought many, but, regrettably, nothing like all, Christmas presents. [There is some problem with the syntax of this sentence but I am too tired to care. Feel free to suggest improvements in the comments.]

I have been to two mulled wine and mince pie evening receptions this week already. I have the work Christmas party tomorrow night, followed by a lunch on Monday for a departing colleague.

How are your own Christmas preparations going?

Some time ago, I agreed with my sister that I would drive down to Cork with her. I did that yesterday. Mr. Waffle had previously arranged to go and see Ireland play the All-Blacks today (particularly distressing defeat for Ireland, since you ask).

I needed to be back in Dublin by 12 today to facilitate Mr. Waffle’s departure to the match. “No problem,” I said. I didn’t realise when I blithely agreed to this that I was going to be ill this weekend. And then, it was only subsequently I realised that everyone in Munster was also going to the match. I managed to just about secure a ticket on the 8.00 train (change at Mallow) for €32.99 one way. When I got on the train was heaving with polite rugby supporters and the reserved seat signs weren’t working so there was much jostling for position. Polite jostling. I sat beside a polite New Zealander (a happy man tonight, I assume). There was no tea on the tea trolley and I had the dubious pleasure of forking out €2.50 for a cup of boiling water (for my lemsip).

I was collected from the station by Mr. Waffle and the children and we proceeded to mass. The Princess did her second reading with considerable aplomb once she realised that her moment had come (this was proceeded by a frantic scuttling up the aisle on my part and a hissing to her to go up – apparently her friend A had already said “Go on, it’s now, you idiot” so my intervention was as embarrassing as it was unnecessary). She had a great reading, it was a long one and it contains this line which is a good one: “for in him were created all things in heaven and on earth: everything visible and everything invisible, Thrones, Dominations, Sovereignties, Powers – all things were created through him and for him.” Daniel has joined the choir, so he was up at the front of the church with his sister and Michael was left sitting with his father and me.

As I have covered previously, Michael does not like going to mass. It lasts forever and it is precious time from the weekend. He walked to the church with dragging footsteps complaining of a sore leg. He counted the seconds at mass until he had got to 15 minutes and asked was it over yet. It was not. I do understand. Some of the longest hours of my life have been spent in mass as a small child (and it was only 40 minutes then). But he is not pleased. It was this Sunday that the parish priest chose to say in his sermon – “We don’t come to mass because we must. We don’t come to mass because we are forced to do so to be good Catholics.” Michael began to protest, all too audibly that that was exactly why he came to mass. He folded his arms and glowered at his father and me in turn.

It did end eventually and Michael was keen to return to his home. On the way home, the neighbours asked Dan in to play with their middle child who is a great friend of his due to their continual excursions to GAA matches and training together. “Sure,” I said. “We’re going out at 2.30,” said the friend’s mother, “Is that ok?” “Fine,” I said. We were dropping Mr. Waffle to the rugby match; news which Michael greeted with prolonged howls of outrage “I want to go home to my own house.” We were slightly late, traffic was heavy, Mr. Waffle likes to be punctual, no one had had lunch, Michael continued to recount his woes loudly and sniffly, I was conscious of our deadline at the other end when the neighbours needed to drop Dan back and my lemsip was wearing off. It was a tense car journey though in the end, Mr. Waffle was on time, we were on time and Michael got home.

When we got home, Daniel discovered that his Christmas list had gone missing and needed to be found immediately. Michael couldn’t open the milk bottle which needed to be opened immediately. Herself looking at me trailing around the house miserably still in my coat with my overnight bag in the hall said, “Mum, would you like me to make lunch?” Which she did, very competently. I’m beginning to feel that those teenage years may not be as bad as everyone says they will be.

I’m still sick as a dog but a quiet afternoon at home has done much to restore me. We had a particularly thrilling game of ludo.