belgianwaffle

Princess

It’s a Social Whirl

4 Comments
Posted in: Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

It was my birthday in March. Herself was home (day after her poor great Uncle’s funeral) which was great. We were to go for breakfast together but alas, a logistical issue with an application arose for her and we spent much of the morning trying (unsuccessfully) to resolve this before heading off for breakfast at 11 and then on to the airport after a short walk. While, obviously, it was delightful to have her here, it’s hard to say that taking your daughter to the airport so that she can return to the land of her exile is a complete highlight but, as she pointed out, she was due back at Easter so I would probably survive.

My family delivered on my birthday with a number of subscriptions including cheese (sister) and flowers (middle child). Very thrilling. Even youngest child remembered and sent a card (dates wouldn’t be his strong point). This only scratches the surface of the excellent presents received from all parties. How I love my birthday.

HYSI3478

To recover from dispatching the exile, I went in to Bewley’s for a restorative cup of tea and the waitress recognised me from previous adventures and basically asked why I wasn’t at work. “It’s my birthday, I’m off!” I said. She gave me free tea. God, I was thrilled.

Mr. Waffle also has a birthday in March so the Dublin contingent went out to dinner to celebrate. I don’t know that he really enjoys his birthday as much as he should. I think he feels he’s too old for this but I will never be too old.

It was sobering though to go to a friend’s 60th birthday drinks. That is old. Because Ireland is small a former colleague was there who turned out to be the birthday boy’s sister in-law’s daughter’s husband. Try to keep up.

I have been out for dinner a number of times with my tennis buddies moving on from the more challenging on court engagement to an arena where I truly shine. Speaking of tennis, on Palm Sunday I went to an early mass in a church where there are a number of regular crazy people in the congregation and the environment can be a little exciting but it had an early and speedy mass which I needed to get to a tennis match at 10.

To my surprise in the pew along from me there were some very clean cut enthusiastic Americans (mid-Westerners, so wholesome) responding clearly and crisply throughout (not a feature of the Irish congregation which is given to the holy mumble) and I felt that they might have gone astray in this city so I talked to them afterwards and it turned out their son was studying in Dublin and they had come to visit him. “It’s actually my first time…” began the son. “At mass since you came to Dublin?” I inquired based on knowledge of other people of his age. He was shocked. “No, in this church, I usually go to the pro-Cathedral.”

I scooted on to tennis and told my opponent about the encounter. “You go to mass??” said she. “Yes,” I said, a bit defensively. Apparently, I am not a beacon for the faith. “I’m amazed,” said she, “it’s just that I thought you were a Protestant.” Honestly, with my name I could never be; it looks like sectarianism may be on the way out. Or maybe she just thought I looked like I would be good at crafts (I am not good at crafts).

On that self-same day, I then had breakfast out with my husband, went to my bookclub for the afternoon and returned to welcome my sister to our home like the gracious hostess, I am. A bit too much perhaps.

Is this why I’m losing my mind? I went to Carlingford with Mr. Waffle a couple of weeks ago and I said to him, “Can we go to that place I like?” “What place, a walk, a sight, a cafe?” he asked. “You know, you know,” I said. “I do not,” said he. I rummaged deep in the recesses of my brain and said, “You know… Mornington Grove”. There was a long pause and then he said, “Do you mean Strandfield?” Truly, that was impressive work.

IMG_0847

Month’s Mind

Leave a Comment
Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

Herself came home very briefly in March to come to her great uncle’s funeral. He was a lovely, lovely man. She was a prime favourite with him as he was a teacher and you know how a teacher loves a clever child. He was also absolutely hilarious and we all found him great company. The Christmas before last we were all together and, honestly, he was the star of the show.

This Christmas he came to our house just before Christmas and he seemed absolutely fine. His son was home from Spain for Christmas with his young family and the great uncle picked up a camp bed from us while he was here. I mean, just to show. And though he was 85, he was sharp as a tack and, just…well. But apparently not. He got sick after Christmas and went into hospital in late February and died in March.

His poor son in Australia flew home (36 hours as the Middle East was closed) and just missed seeing him before he died which was very sad but they were very close and spoke regularly so not so bad, I guess.

My sister-in-law came back from England as well and it was very nice to see her and the extended family. Poor old youngest child wasn’t able to get home from his Erasmus exile but watched the live stream from his student bedroom; I wouldn’t call it ideal.

The last surviving sibling in that family – my husband’s uncle was there as well. He’s really like his brothers and reminded me so much of my late father-in-law – just a very funny, charming person. It made me sad but he also made me laugh. He is almost 90 and seems very hale and hearty. Let us hope Mr. Waffle has these genes. The funeral was in the chapel attached to the school where the deceased uncle had attended himself, taught, and where his sons had also gone to school so he was very well known to the (pretty good) turn out of priests who were there for the service which was a good one. A clatter of young men from the school attended also which was a nice touch and came and dutifully shook hands with the relatives afterwards.

Outside the crematorium, keen eyed Mr. Waffle saw a memorial to Oscar Wilde’s father. Small world, eh?

We went for lunch with the mourners after and said goodbye to everyone. I really felt for the immediate family, they all seemed a bit shell-shocked. It’s definitely better for everyone when someone is well (and old obviously) and dies quickly but it’s such a shock for relatives in the moment; alas.

A Londoner

8 Comments
Posted in: Princess

Herself is working in London. She spent some time living in Chelsea (delightful part of the world in my view) but it was a bit pricey for her (and perhaps a bit staid) and she is now ensconced in her happy place (North London, since you’re asking, leaving behind the groves of Chelsea Physick Garden). She loves London.

The job in the City seems to keep her in until all hours. I often get a call from her at 10 or 11 at night in the taxi home from work. It is a bit grim. I wouldn’t say she loves it. But a steady income is not to be sneezed at. I have spent many years telling her not to stick at a job she hates, I hope I haven’t been too persuasive in that regard.

She spent a good while last year supporting herself by tutoring and although it did allow her greater flexibility (when she was in Italy on holidays she enterprisingly rented a room and kept tutoring- only about €16 an hour to rent a small office, who’d have thought it?), it was a slightly precarious existence. Perhaps she is destined to return to it, at least temporarily.

Swings and roundabouts, I guess.

I do wonder whether she will ever come home – and she may yet move further afield than London.

Among the many things that have flooded into my house from my parents’ house like a tidal wave are letters. The letters my mother wrote home to her mother from England and my own letters to my mother from Belgium. Although the Princess and I have the, basically free, video call, in a throwback to an earlier age, I still send her letters occasionally. Three generations of emigrants, right here. Admittedly, relatively affluent, lucky emigrants, going for exciting opportunities rather than necessity but emigrants all the same with all that that entails.

These thoughts are prompted by her birthday which is today. 23, who would have thought it? Not me for sure.

It turns out that the years are, in fact, short.

Untitled

Turbulent Times

4 Comments
Posted in: Dublin, Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

Mr. Waffle and I climbed the Sugar Loaf on Good Friday. It was extremely windy and we were nearly blown away. I have never before experienced such strong wind on that mountain which, despite the excellent views and impressive appearance, is generally an extremely straightforward climb. I once met a pre-school class on the top and one of the little girls had brought her bag on wheels (just to give you the picture).

Untitled Untitled

Still, despite the wind, it was a very satisfactory day out, all the more so as when we left Dublin it was absolutely lashing and we nearly didn’t go at all. In the end we brought our rain gear and didn’t even need it.

Untitled

I bought some linen napkins in Enniskerry afterwards. Middle aged thrills.

You might have thought that as my youngest child had returned to these shores (briefly, for Easter) from his Erasmus placement abroad, I would be spending all my time with him but you would have reckoned without his extremely full social calendar. He came back on Wednesday morning (April 1) and immediately plunged into a social whirl.

I was delighted with myself on Wednesday morning when I sent a message to the family group chat saying “Aaargh, youngest child’s flight is diverted to Heathrow, first born can you help?” Herself rang straight away with many questions and I revealed it was an April fool. Mr. Waffle was using the flight tracker and utterly baffled. Middle child sent a message saying, “You infidels have no need to blow up my phone before 8 in the morning” so not everyone was fooled. It was my greatest April fool ever and no one was even cross with me (which can be a risk).

Herself was due to come home on Saturday evening and I was dutifully waiting at the airport when looking at the flight tracker I saw her plane doing pretty elaborate loops. It was extremely windy and, alas, they took her back to London without landing. I was so relieved that she was alive that I resigned myself to her not being here for Easter. It was all pretty hairy she told us afterwards: “I’ve never been on a flight before where everyone screamed at the same time.”

She spent the night in the Radisson in Heathrow airport (congratulations to Hamish and Nishal on their wedding which was going really well judging by the background noises). And, thrills and delight got in to Dublin the next morning. Middle child and I had an extremely elaborate breakfast waiting for her (youngest child still in bed, note social life comments earlier) – see those new napkins getting their first outing.

Untitled

Weird aside, there were about 30 young men from an American school from Ohio at mass in their blazers and the priest said that they were here to play rugby. I have many questions.

We went to the in-laws for lunch (oh happy day) and spent the day with the extended family. It was really nice to see everyone and even though the children played monopoly together which, in my experience, is generally not a recipe for a good time, I think everyone did, in fact, have a good time.

On Monday we saw Mr. Waffle’s sister and her family for lunch; went for a walk; and then dropped herself to the airport. This was not without its alarms as BA had cancelled the return leg of her flight for their own obscure reasons but all was well in the end.

Today, Mr. Waffle and I cycled to Howth and although it was pretty pleasant it is quite far away and I am exhausted from my efforts.

Untitled

Our beloved youngest child is joining us for dinner tonight before he flies back to his Erasmus exile at the crack of dawn. It’s my last day off work and I guess the Easter excitement is nearly over.

How was your own Easter?

Continuing My Middle Aged Adventures


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Youngest Child

I am just in from visiting the Adam’s show room to inspect lots consigned for their upcoming “at home” auction. What a delight. Am I going to buy anything? Nope, but maybe next time.*

In fact, I went to quite a few house auctions last year. Since you ask, I didn’t actually buy anything but I enjoyed the experience. There’s nothing as good as poking around someone else’s house.

I am actively looking for a new dining room table having, with great reluctance, taken the one from my parents’ house in Cork which I never liked – a reproduction number with Queen Anne legs. However, a table in our dining room has improved it considerably and made it much more used so, as a concept, I welcome it. I just need a better table.

I have spent the past week clearing out the youngest child’s bedroom. All his stuff is now in his sister’s room. He currently has the box room and given that she has, alas, definitively moved out, if makes sense to move him to her double room. As part of this we are going to do up the box room a bit so her stuff is still in her old room. It’s horrific. I tell you this as I am keeping an eye out for a nice small desk for her as part of the move and saw a couple of possible candidates in my inspection at Adam’s. Though honestly clearing out the room made me mildly reluctant to ever bring anything into the house again. The whole thing took a lot out of me as I dug through the dusty Schliemann layers and sneezed through the process but it is done. Now to pin down the painter. I digress.

This whole house contents auction adventuring is not without its drawbacks. We went to inspect a house in the suburbs over the summer. The whole thing was basically a disaster. We spent two hours on the hottest day of the year trying to get there by the suburban rail line. There was some kind of fault and we ended up sheltering from the sun under a tiny canopy on a blistering platform. As I face into my 60th consecutive day of rain now, it’s hard to remember how unpleasant it was but I retain a feeling of mild rage which makes me think that I didn’t like it.

On the way home I went for a swim in Seapoint. This is quite the urban experience. When I was growing up in Cork, beaches were in the middle of nowhere and tennis courts were near the river surrounded by foliage. I have become more accustomed to Dublin where tennis courts can be right by the road or the train line and access to the sea is often via concrete. It’s hard to say Seapoint was at its best that day. It was very warm and it was full of people. Mr. Waffle declining the swimming opportunity went gloomily to sit on the ground beside a group of teenage boys who were playing loud music. They stopped him and pointed out that he was about to sit on dog poo and we were both suitably grateful and felt bad about our (mercifully silent) judgment of their loud music. I told a friend from Seapoint about this rather unsatisfactory experience. “I can only apologise,” said she, “if it’s any comfort my mother was flashed on the way to the beach the other day.” How would that be any comfort?

*Update: a not perfect – but better than mine – dining room table was on sale (estimate €600 to €1000) and it went for €60. It was a large Victorian mahogany table with 2 or 3 leaves and on castors (which is handy). I don’t know whether to be horrified (at the low esteem in which such items are held) or delighted (more bargains for me to find).

It’s a Jungle Out There


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

Mr Waffle had a work triumph and we had a weekday outing to Howth to celebrate.

We had lunch and a walk. A classic combination. After lunch, I got a 99 and we went for a stroll on the pier. There weren’t any people around.

On the exposed pier, the seagulls saw me and my ice cream and started flapping around trying to take it from me. In the absence of other punters I was (if you’ll forgive me) a sitting duck. I scuttled along anxiously guarding my ice cream but a seagull came diving in from behind and took a big mouthful. They’re big animals, you know. In what I have to say was not my finest hour, I threw the ice cream on the ground and abandoning the others I dashed off the pier shouting at the seagulls “Take it you bastards”.