The Princess and I went to a reading last night based on the life and work of Lafcadio Hearn. It was not a success. Notwithstanding the potential for real interest, I regret to report that the performance and script were dull. The audience was not large and most of them slumbered throughout the performance.
It’s not all fun and games supporting the arts, you know.
Herself likes to spread salt on her rice cakes (don’t judge). One day she brought some sea salt into school in a bit of cling film. One of her best friends asked her, “Why are you putting crystal meth on your rice cakes?”
Sunday was the All-Ireland football final. Dublin beat Kerry. Knock on benefits included no homework for the boys yesterday. Cork and Dublin often win all-Ireland finals, Longford and Roscommon never do. I was talking to two colleagues from these counties today and saying how the Dublin team (or representatives thereof) were going to visit the Dublin primary schools and possibly “give” the children a half day. They were outraged. “But that always happens when your county wins the All-Ireland,” I said. Awkward silence.
Anyhow, we were at mass on Sunday and it was all about humility. We had, from the second reading: “Where do these wars and battles between yourselves start? Isn’t it precisely in the desires fighting inside your own selves?” From the Gospel:“‘What were you arguing about on the way?’ But they were silent, for on the way they had argued with one another who was the greatest. He sat down, called the twelve, and said to them, ‘Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all.’†And then our parish priest devoted his sermon to humility and not arguing over who was the greatest and so.
After the prayers of the faithful, the priest added his own prayer to the ones on the leaflet. “Let us pray,” said he “for those in the All-Ireland final and all of those watching from communities around the country.” Herself lent across to me and whispered, “Isn’t the All-Ireland just a big ‘who is the greatest’ competition?”
We have decided to reconsider pocket money amounts for the children in exchange for extra work around the house. We also decided to close the gap between what the boys get and what their sister gets as this has caused no end of grief all year.
Mr. Waffle made a first pass at negotiations at the weekend while I was away. The boys were delighted. Mr. Waffle texted me as follows in relation to herself:
First meeting of pocket money committee over dinner. [Herself] rejected management proposals – wants greater differential or less productivity. We may have to go to plenary.
I will keep you appraised of developments.
The Princess has been baking like a demon since we got back from France last Tuesday.
Biscotti:
Brownies:
Made, I understand, while I was in Cork for 24 hours. No visible trace remained on my return.
Jalousie:
It’s a kind of slatted apple cake. Chiefly chosen because the recipe calls for a kilo of apples and we have three apple trees.
It’s immensely complex and she was up at dawn this morning freezing and grating butter, refrigerating the dough and then taking it out, rolling it, folding it and re-refrigerating it. Her operations were not helped by being interrupted by mass. The archbishop was present and it went on for an hour and a half. She was fit to be tied. As she was rolling out after mass, I heard her sigh sadly, “If only I had a marble rolling pin.” I would like you to know that I have never hankered after a marble rolling pin. She must get this interest in baking from my mother. I understand these things often skip a generation.
She is starting secondary school tomorrow and, I suppose, this may lead to a mild slow-down.
I made mirabelle jam myself. Go me.
Details of our French holiday to follow when we are all feeling stronger.
The Princess was very keen to go to Cork for the weekend alone. With some trepidation, we sent our precious 12 year old off last weekend. I really thought there wasn’t much possibility for disaster. She’s a train veteran and it was a non-stop train, how bad could it be?
Well, on the way down, there was a drunken man in her carriage announcing loudly and intimidatingly that he had just been released from Mountjoy (Dublin’s largest prison). The staff were called but they went away again when he sat down and my poor 12 year old was petrified. Not helped by a six year old running up and down the carriage telling the man he was drunk; some kind of altercation ensued between the mother and the drunken ex-prisoner and the mother and six year old (who had been sitting opposite herself) hightailed it out of the carriage. Herself was terrified and wouldn’t talk to me on the phone in case “he would hear”; I was hearing this blow by blow by text message. I was very upset for her. Mercifully, a kind, saintly midwife sitting nearby asked the Princess whether she was travelling alone and suggested that she sit in beside her for the remainder of the journey which she did, very gratefully.
After the initial trauma, her weekend in Cork was terrific but it would be useless to deny that she approached the train ride back with some trepidation. She met the midwife again in the same carriage so that was a relief to her but they were the only two people in the carriage. One of the staff sat down opposite herself and asked was she travelling alone. She said that she was and he pointed out that every other seat in the carriage was reserved for Dublin supporters who would be getting on in Thurles and they might be a bit rough. Would she like, he asked, to move to first class. She would like. “What about the midwife?” I asked. “I waved to her as I went past,” said she. She travelled back to Dublin in first class. “I am never going back,” she said to me firmly. We’ll have to see about that now.
So, hats off to Iarnród Éireann for prompt action on the return journey but, alas, for the outward journey. Still, I think she is prepared to go on the train alone again, provided that she can travel first class.