I’ve found the missing jigsaw piece:
Too late, alas:
I’ve put the missing piece back in the box, but I’m honestly not sure that I’ll ever have the strength to make it again.
Filled with Rage
Reading etc.
Parasocial
When I started blogging in 2003, it was because I was far from home, I was lonely and I had a new baby. My family in Ireland were interested in my doings. And it felt social to a new mother at home alone with her baby. I started reading other blogs. Here is a list of some favourites I made in 2009. Neither today nor yesterday. It was a good while before that, that I started reading Heather Armstrong on Dooce.com which is one of the blogs on that 2009 list. I was definitely reading it as early as 2004 when the writer’s own daughter was born.
I followed Heather faithfully over the years, I listened to her podcast, I followed her on Instagram and twitter. When she got divorced, I sent her a present (weird man, but she had a PO Box and I was so sad for her). She was one of the funniest writers on the internet. She often made me laugh out loud. Although her life was very different from mine, we had children of similar enough ages and her ability to articulate the universal experience of child rearing was extraordinary. She was a very gifted writer.
She was also pretty sick. She struggled with chronic depression (which she wrote a lot about) and alcoholism (which she wrote about more recently) all through the time I read her blog. Of late years, she basically disappeared from the internet aside from the occasional appearance on Instagram. I always kept an eye out for those updates. Her last couple of posts sounded manic and were confusing and hard to read. I was glad for her when she more or less stopped posting. It seemed like a good sign.
On May 9, she committed suicide and I am so sad for her two beautiful children (her elder child had just started college last year, the younger is only 13), her mother who had such a starring role in her blog and all of her family and friends. I’ve been thinking about her all day. It’s so strange to feel this way about a total stranger but there you go. Fluid Pudding (the strange names were a thing when blogging started) another of my favourite bloggers – also a great writer – put it this way:
Because she held nothing back, we felt like we knew her, and we loved her honesty. We laughed with her and we cried with her and we celebrated her victories. Then we watched her struggle. We followed along as she went down paths that felt destructive, and we suddenly felt uncomfortable with the honesty we once loved.
Was It For This?*
Your correspondent has had a busy 24 hours. Last night Mr. Waffle and I went to see Bruce Springsteen. I can’t honestly say that standing in a field for about four hours was the finishing touch I needed to recuperate fully from my cold but Bruce does do a good concert. I thought that there might be some kind of…intermission, I mean he is 73 but no, he kept going for three hours solid. He jumped. I was honestly concerned that one of the elderly gents on stage would have a heart attack. Or perhaps someone in the stadium. Just so you know, Bruce Springsteen fans are mainly bald family men in their 50s and 60s. Some of them bring their children to concerts which lowers the age profile. Some of them bring their wives which slightly improves the gender balance. All attendees were taller than me.
Honestly, the environment was, entirely wholesome, family fun. I did enjoy it – what a show – but I was quite surprised by how many songs the Boss has written since the mid-80s when I was last paying attention.
We cycled to and from the venue and I was delighted with myself and slightly smug (doubtless I will burn for this) as we sailed by traffic chaos on the way in and on the way home. I was a bit worried about our bikes but the fans were all round polite pillars of society, so I really needn’t have been. All was well, not so much as a light missing on our return to where the bikes were locked to Sheffield stands right beside the venue. This was not a crowd that goes in for utility cycling much I’d say, so bike parking was readily available.
When we got home about 11 (Bruce is 73, he played for three hours, what more do you want?) Daniel, who had gone to the beach with friends, still wasn’t home. In fairness to him he’s pretty good to answer when you call so my inevitable panic was of short duration. He was coming home – he and his friends had had dinner in town. I waited up. There was mild drama. One of his friends had got the bus in the wrong direction and ended up in Crumlin when she wanted to go to Clontarf (these places are far apart). She texted the group and said her father was furious and had told her to get home by herself. She had missed the last bus. I was outraged and dithering about what to do but mercifully her father relented. All this took time though so I was late to bed and not at my bright and beautiful best next morning when I got up at 8.
“Why 8?” you ask. I was going to a coronation brunch. I am not proud but a friend of mine offered and off I went. Leaving poor Mr. Waffle cleaning up cat vomit from the kitchen floor, I went to my monarchial extravaganza. I mean look it’s free pageantry kindly paid for by the old oppressor. As you may have guessed, I am a little ambivalent. But, I have to say, I really enjoyed it. I thought the ceremony was great – surprisingly moving – and the music terrific. Who knew there were so many functionaries in Britain who could speak so well to an audience of thousands in the church and lots more on TV? Man of the match had to go to the young chorister who had the first words in the whole ceremony and delivered them as clearly and collectedly as if he’d been practicing every day of his life. Perhaps he was, I wouldn’t put it past the British to have someone who is trained from birth.
I could have done with more focus on women’s dresses but still very enjoyable. And brunch was superb. We didn’t crack open champagne at the moment of coronation because 1) it felt a bit like mass and drinking in mass feels so odd and 2) it was probably a bridge too far.
I suppose, it’s a big thing that has happened in my lifetime. I remember my father talking about when the old King died (George V to you) and we do have a relationship with the neighbouring island with their big events, willy nilly, being a bit ours too. I well remember when Charles and Diana got married we went over to my mother’s friend’s house and watched it on TV. And, I might add, my mother’s friends were an Irish speaking family. Am I protesting too much? I guess, as they say, relationship status: it’s complicated.
When I got home, my brother was packing up to leave having stayed for a few days. Michael said wickedly, “We should tell Uncle Dan where you were.” I would suffer unmerciful slagging, if my brother heard about this, so I managed to persuade Michael not to tell (what will be the end of this?). “But it is here, on the internet,” you protest. To my lasting chagrin, my brother does not read my blog. “I must,” he says weakly, but he never does. Bitter? Moi?
And how was your own coronation experience, if you partook? Did anyone make the quiche? And how about Penny Mordaunt’s scene stealing sword gig?
*The title comes from this poem by WB Yeats and is general shorthand for doing something which is perhaps not totally worthy of the Republic. Has wide application.
The relevant stanza is:
Was it for this the wild geese spread/The grey wing upon every tide;/For this that all that blood was shed,/For this Edward Fitzgerald died,/And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,/All that delirium of the brave?/Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone,/It’s with O’Leary in the grave.
Self-Improvement
I’ve signed up for six weeks of various exercise classes. Due to a variety of other commitments, I have only been once. To Pilates. I was stiff for a week. Thanks for asking. Maybe I will go again this week, if I’m feeling strong.
I think I have mentioned that I have also been learning Ukrainian all year. I am absolutely useless at it. I have finished the Ukrainian Duolingo course which is short (unlike say, Spanish, which goes on forever). I am now doing mild conversation classes with a Ukrainian. She’s a bit despairing I think and keeps sending me links to foreigners speaking fluent Ukrainian which is not helping at all. I think she means to encourage me. Humiliatingly, I still regularly get tripped up by the alphabet and when I read aloud I am like a small child in senior infants anxiously sounding out each word – to be clear, at the end after all my sounding I may not know what the word actually means so I am worse off than the senior infant. Curse you, Saints Cyril and Methodius.
Unhelpfully, I started doing Russian Duolingo as well, just because it had more lessons. It’s quite like Ukrainian and I need practice on the alphabet. It’s sort of like I started learning Dutch and German at the same time with no knowledge of either. As I go through my lessons, my long-suffering teacher will sigh and say, no, that’s Russian again.
I read an interesting article which said the following about the relationship between Russia and Ukraine:
Earlier in the night, Peter had made the comparison to Britain and Ireland. As between Britain and Ireland, between Russia and Ukraine there are innumerable cultural and linguistic and personal interweavings -so many that the two nations could never be wholly separate or wholly different-but that did not mean they were not distinct. That did not mean that the colonial nations of Ukraine and Ireland could be anything but independent and self-determining. And as in Ireland’s relationship to Britain, the crimes of the past would never be forgotten by Ukraine. They would be set aside in the name of commerce or family connections, but there would be, for centuries to come, a barely suppressed rage.
My Ukrainian teacher is prepping me for after the war when Mr. Waffle and I can go and visit and I will finally be able to put my hard won knowledge of basic restaurant vocabulary to use.
54
I was in Cork during the week with my bike. God, it absolutely lashed, it also snowed and hailed. And it was uncharacteristically chilly. I had kind of forgotten the intensity of Cork rain, cosseted as I am in Dublin where it never rains much. My rain gear which is fine in Dublin proved inadequate for Cork. I was out and about a bit so it was put under some strain. Inter alia, I went to see Reggie in the Everyman – funny in places but pretty site specific as they say, can’t see it travelling outside Cork – Reggie was in Elec Eng the year ahead of me in college and I’d say that he has more lucrative ways to make a buck so he must really love it. He was a brilliant debater in college and the best bits of the show are when he interacts with the audience, he’s very fast on his feet. Something about his accent and some of his expressions really remind me of the Cork of my youth and my parents’ friends so I have a bit of a soft spot for him.
The purpose of my visit was to keep an eye on my aunt as my sister was away. To be honest she seemed pretty well minded without me and I was quite impressed by the trail of people in and out every day which my sister masterminds from her fastness next door. Still, my aunt was very glad to see me which was pleasing.
I found a box of my mother’s old papers from before she was married. There were loads of old letters and her diary from the year she spent in England. I had a quick look through it pending a more thorough perusal in due course and many days are marked in capital letters NO POST. My poor mother. That said, the box is full of letters sent to her in England so there must have been some post.
I came back on the train on Thursday. My rain gear completely gave up the ghost on the cycle to the station. My boots (still drying as I type) were super saturated as were my socks. My rain jacket and trousers leaked at cuffs, joints and hems soaking through all the layers I was wearing. I was, foolishly, not wearing waterproof gloves but my nice Paula Rowan ones that Mr. Waffle bought me one Christmas. I literally had to wring them out in the station. They will never be the same again. I was frozen and damp on the train home. Sigh. Don’t give me this “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing” guff.
I derived mild pleasure from sending my brother this picture from the train showing snow in Tipperary as he is in Morzine next week and rain is forecast. Rain!
I arrived home safely in time for my birthday celebrations. Mr. Waffle had made superhuman efforts as had all of the children. I got messages from all and sundry (why would you keep your birthday a secret? why?) and lovely flowers from a former colleague as well as great presents from Mr. Waffle, the children and my siblings. A triumph overall.
Sadly Mr. Waffle was up to his tonsils at work and couldn’t take the day off. It was snowy but bright and sunny (Dublin weather) so I went to the park and took some pictures for myself. Sadly, I also got a puncture but into every birthday some rain must fall (though not, generally, in Dublin).
We were invited to dinner at my oldest friend’s house. I have known her since I was born (our parents were friends). On the way over to her house I explained to Mr. Waffle how this was an important time as until April 20 (her birthday) we were the same age and she could no longer tell me what to do. Mr. Waffle said, “I think that was understandable when you were children but it’s a bit weird that you are still talking about it now.” I was extremely pleased that her birthday card adverted to this very fact.
I must say being 54 is not at all as I anticipated when I was 24. I am beginning to realise that everyone is still 24 on the inside.
Reading
This Year’s For Me and You by Emily Bell
This was written by someone I know. That caveat aside, I really enjoyed it. It’s a funny Christmas read (although the author assures me that it is an appropriate read at any time of the year). I saved it up to read in December and I found it completely charming and very funny indeed in places. I am glad to finally know what hot yoga entails.
Stalking the Atomic City by Markiyan Kamysh
This is a very peculiar book written by a youngish man from Kiev whose father was one of the Chernobyl liquidators. He regularly visits the exclusion zone illegally. It’s quite short but the writing is more like poetry than prose (in translation at least). Interesting but weird.
The Bullet that Missed by Richard Osman
Another outing for the pensioner detectives – charming and readable as ever though the plots are getting more convoluted.
City of Heavenly Fire by Cassandra Clare
The final installment in this young adult series. Did I enjoy it? Yes. Is it pretty stupid? Yes also.
And Finally by Henry Marsh
Another book by the slightly odd neurosurgeon. He’s retired now. He is a strange man and this comes across in the book. At the same time a very sensitive compassionate person and someone marching to a different beat to the rest of humanity. Recommended.
Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan
This is a tiny novella which I was VERY reluctant to read but my objections were overcome. I am so glad that I let myself be convinced. It is a beautiful, beautiful book. The writing is gorgeous and evocative. The story is a bit like a fable but the people are real. It is a bit sad but also, as our friends the critics say, life-affirming. A truly wonderful Christmas read. It’s set in the 1980s in an Ireland I remember so clearly but it seems like a long time ago. Highly recommended but you would want to be in the whole of your health.
The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O’Farrell
I found this really hard going. It’s about a young Medici daughter who marries the Duke of Ferrara and then dies (honestly, not a spoiler). There was a lot of research went into it and you can tell. Not always an advantage.
The Idiot by Elif Batuman
Herself recommended this. It is about a college student who follows her romantic interest to Hungary. It feels entirely episodic like a series of articles strung together. There’s no real propelling forward of the narrative as a whole. That said some of the pieces are very good and the interactions of girls and their mothers is really well observed and frequently hilarious. I would try another.
Act of Oblivion by Robert Harris
I don’t know why I keep reading Robert Harris books when I really don’t go for him. It’s in hope. This is about the manhunt – in New England – for the regicides who signed the death warrant for Charles I. It’s just not for me. All very erudite and well-written but I found it a bit dull. There it is.
Your One Wild and Precious Life by Maureen Gaffney
Dear God in heaven. A friend gave me this when I took my break from work. It was kindly meant but self-help psychology is not a genre I read a lot. There is a reason for this. It drives me wild. I’ve been reading this in fits and starts since I got it last June. Everything is your mother’s fault or, if you are a mother, also your fault. I found myself passing my mother’s parenting style and my own under constant review as I read this and I did not enjoy it. I told various people about it as I ploughed through it and was asked subsequently, “How are you getting on with the wicked witch of the subconscious?”. Fair question. I was outraged to see in the acknowledgements that good friends of mine were thanked. It felt like they were out to get me too. I mentioned it to herself, “I’m surprised she didn’t thank her mother,” she said. I gave it to my sister when I was in Cork. She likes this kind of thing.
The Death of Grass by John Christopher
This was recommended in two podcasts I enjoy. It’s written in the 1950s and, the clue’s in the title, grass gets diseased and starts to die. It starts in the far East and then spreads and people begin to worry about starvation and order breaks down. It sounds like my cup of tea but though I found the concept clever, I just didn’t enjoy the novel. It felt way too dated for me.
I’m Sorry You Feel That Way by Rebecca Wait
I read a good review of this in the paper. I found it very interesting on the inner workings of a family – an English family – but, in some ways, universally applicable. Her characters are brilliantly drawn and lots happens to them. There are parts that are exceedingly funny. But yet, but yet, there’s something that didn’t quite work. I can’t put my finger on it. Might try another but wouldn’t be rushing out to buy one.
Une Femme by Annie Ernaux
This is a very short biography. It’s about the author’s mother’s life. It’s a companion piece to the book about her father which I read last year. Really, really good, beautifully written (v readable in French) and interesting but a bit grim. Not maybe a feelgood read.
Spare by Prince Harry
Sorry. It was on ten day non-reservable loan in the library and I couldn’t help myself. It’s not too bad actually. I watched him give an interview on the TV (Mr. Waffle sitting beside me reading the paper) and he talked a lot about his difficulties with the media. Mr. Waffle emerged briefly from his paper to say, “It’s like being cornered at a party by the man who wants to tell you about his dispute with the council.” Honestly, there is some truth in that. He is obsessed with the media. Overall, very readable though and mildly interesting in places.