A friend told me this story recently about an older gentlemen (let us call him Mr. Murphy) he knows who is in his 80s. Mr. Murphy’s wife of 50 years died last year. At tea with my friend Mr. Murphy announced that he is getting married again later this year; to a woman to whom he was previously engaged 56 years ago. Mr. Murphy made her a ring from a silver shilling. She kept if for 56 years and now it’s her engagement ring. And, if this doesn’t remind you of this short story by William Trevor, it should.
Reading etc.
Reading
Throne of Glass by Sarah J Maas
To say I was disappointed by this is an understatement. I read somewhere that romancetasy (mmm I know not anyone’s favourite portmanteau) books are the biggest sellers in publishing and that Sarah J Maas was the bestselling of the lot. I thought I’d give them a go. As you know, I am not opposed to a certain amount of fantasy writing with maps at the front of the book. This was just poor: the world building was dull and derivative; the heros and heroine (it’s a love triangle) annoying and the plot unimaginative. A page turner it was not. Michael pointed out to me that I had begun on book 2 of the series (who calls their series after the second book in the sequence, who?). I caught up. I realised belatedly that the author’s more famous series is called “A Court of Thorns and Roses”. I’m sorry but I can’t face going back and trying another; I’ve done my bit in the interests of science.
The Racket by Conor Niland
Great sports book by one of Ireland’s greatest modern tennis players. He wasn’t super successful by international standards and he has some, not very flattering, thoughts on the Irish set up. He mentions that his older sister was one of Ireland’s top tennis players. These paragraphs filled me with rage:
Gina remains Ireland’s greatest female tennis player in the modern era, winning more points for Ireland in the international Fed Cup (now the Billie Jean King Cup) than anybody else. She turned professional after finishing secondary school and quickly reached number 470 in the world. […]
In the qualifying tournament for the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona, Gina and Siobhan Nicholson lost in the last round of the doubles competition, but a subsequent withdrawal handed them a place at the Games. The president of the Olympic Council of Ireland, Pat Hickey, refused to send them, saying the girls were not legitimate medal hopes and that Ireland would not be sending ‘tourists’.
No doubt the Slovenia team that got through instead couldn’t believe their luck. That Olympic year, Ireland sent forty-nine men and only nine women to Barcelona.
Is it any wonder that women’s sports in Ireland were in such an appalling state for many years. It says something about tennis too, I suppose.
This book also confirms my belief that every tennis prodigy has at least one crazy parent.
It won the William Hill sports book of the year award and very well deserved. Recommended. Unrelated – did you know that William Hill was a Black and Tan stationed in Cork and liked it so much that he regularly came back to Cork on holidays over the years. Honestly, not something I would have put money on if I were a betting man.
Tuck Everlasting by Natalie Babbit
A children’s book I was interested in reading. I thought it might be fun for an adult to read also but not really. Probably fun for an adult to read to a child.
Death Note Black Edition, Volumes 1 & 2 by Tsugumi Ohba
The twins like these Japanese manga comics so I thought I’d give them a try but ultimately I got too confused by reading the frames backwards. Not bad though, I have to say.
The Outlaws Scarlett and Browne by Jonathan Stroud
The Notorious Scarlett and Browne by Jonathan Stroud
This is another series from the pen of the man who wrote the really excellent Lockwood and Co books for teenagers which I very much enjoyed. I enjoyed these too. I am eagerly awaiting the next installment which I have just ordered from the library. It’s about a pair of very different teenagers who pair up in a post-apocalyptic England. Recommended.
Rivals by Jilly Cooper
This was a book club read to tie in with the TV series about which there was so much fuss. Grand, I suppose. Flew through it but not really for me. I won’t be going back for more Rupert Campbell-Black.
I was reading it at a spot I sometimes go for my lunch and the young, enthusiastic English master’s student who seems to like to see me reading came up to see what I was reading. He was pretty disappointed. It compared unfavourably to “A Place of Greater Safety” an epic Hilary Mantel novel about the French Revolution (did not enjoy) which was what I had been reading last time I was in. Alas, another dream shattered.
A Very Private School by Charles Spencer
This got pretty good reviews and I was curious to read it. I am becoming increasingly convinced that for many, many people in the 70s (and before) schools were very institutionally unpleasant places. Worse, if you went to boarding school. This man had a miserable time at school and at home (his mother left the family home although he does seem to have been v fond of his father, if not his step-mother) despite being enormously rich and privileged (his sister was Princess Diana).
The Last Devil to Die by Richard Osman
Another Thursday Murder club book. What a lovely treat. Will I go and see the film when it comes out? Yes, I will, I definitely will.
Henry ‘Chips’ Channon: The Diaries (Volume 2): 1938-43 edited by Simon Heffer
I am tired of Chips. I have had enough. I lived with him for months. I filled my family in on his doings. I will not be attempting volume 3. During this phase my daughter (who, you will recall has a degree in English from Oxford) said to me “You talk more about books than anyone else I’ve ever met.” Then she added “But you seem to hate them.” There’s always a but.
Entitlement by Rumaan Alam
This is a clever idea well-executed but a bit chilly for my liking. Our narrator works for a philanthropist and increasingly thinks she is entitled to all the riches she sees around her.
The Safe Keep by Yael van der Wouden
This has been a huge success. It’s a love story/mystery story set just after World War II in the Netherlands. Written in English by a Dutch woman. It’s like Joseph Conrad; making me feel inadequate all over again. Isn’t it enough to write a great novel in your first language? I didn’t hate it at all but I certainly didn’t love it as much as everyone else. Not sure why; I guessed the mystery relatively early so that probably didn’t help.
Death at the Sign of the Rook by Kate Atkinson
Kate Atkinson does cosy crime. I loved this. By Kate Atkinson standards nothing bad happens (she tends to torture her characters a bit) although, obviously, there’s um, some violence. Truly recommended.
What does Jeremy think? by Suzanne Heywood
Oh so worthy book about Jeremy Heywood, British cabinet secretary who died young. It’s written by his wife whose own book about growing up on a boat I had found really interesting (not at all as idyllic as it sounds). Her husband was a very clever man and clearly very dedicated to his job but yet, I found it a strange book. So much of it was about logistics and politics with a small p (inter-civil service wrangling) rather than policy. For all Lord Heywood of Whitehall’s (great title) undeniable brilliance, I was interested to see that he was completely surprised by the problems Brexit threw up on the Irish border although the Irish government was, to be fair, shouting itself hoarse on this point. His wife’s book is probably more frank about the system than he might have been himself; I get the sense that he was more suave and more inclined to smooth over difficulties than she is. Although he was very involved in the writing he was also very sick at the time and probably not much up to doing more than dictating content. Interesting all round but definitely on the worthy side.
A Voyage around the Queen by Craig Brown
God this was enjoyable. I highly recommend. The author has placed the Queen at the centre of the book and described the experience of others around her. It is an entirely novel and wholly successful approach. Funny, page-turning and insightful.
One thing that struck me as I was reading. One of the Queen’s friends when she was a child was a Catholic who lived with, I think, her grandfather. Our author describes the grandfather as exceptionally religious because the family said the Rosary every night. This suggests that the author knows little of the standard religious practice of Catholics at the time. Even in the 70s although my own family did not say the Rosary every night, when I was packed off to my cousins, it was everyone in the house down on their knees at bedtime and a full five decades. One person leads and the others follow. I was occasionally called upon to lead and this was particularly daunting as I could never count the Hail Marys and I would be starting Hail Mary number 12 (only 10 in a decade as you may have guessed) and my Nana would tap me on the elbow to stop (I mean the whole thing was long enough without me adding in unnecessary Hail Marys).
There was a great chapter in the book about the Queen’s use of the words “how interesting” (I mean, they were all great chapters) and one of the items included in this chapter is a letter to the paper (maybe the Times) from one Enda Cullen of Armagh. Honestly, it was like coming across an old friend in an unusual context. He is a retired school principal from Armagh and I know this because he is an inveterate letter writer to the Irish Times. Small world and all that.
Walk the Blue Fields by Claire Keegan
Claire Keegan is just a brilliant writer. Did I enjoy this collection of short stories? Not really. They are beautifully written but they are sad in a peculiarly old-fashioned Irish way which I did not love.
Heartburn by Nora Ephron
This is quite the story and very much a roman-à-clef. The author describes her husband leaving her for another woman. All of the characters are very much identifiable and Margaret Jay is apparently still quite annoyed about it. While I did quite enjoy it, it’s a bit sad underneath it all and if I were to reread a Nora Ephron it wouldn’t be this one.
The Unexpected Joy of the Ordinary by Catherine Gray
Self-help is not for me. This was a Christmas present and so I read it but I cannot say I enjoyed it. Perhaps you would like it, if you like self-help?
The Proof of my Innocence by Jonathan Coe
There is a pun in the title and that is not at all the only good thing about this book. I love Jonathan Coe and have read most, if not all, of his books. There are some duds but I am happy to report that this is not one of them. It starts poorly but then really improves. I loved it. Jonathan Coe does cozy crime; also, are English literary authors now having a moment with cozy crime? If so I am, as the middle aged say, here for it. A good part of it is set in Cambridge which I know a bit and knowing the location adds to the fun for me.
Time of the Child by Niall Williams
This is Happiness by Niall Williams
Niall Williams was described in the papers as “the most famous Irish author you’ve never heard of”. Not one but both of my book clubs selected different Niall Williams books for us to read. I have to say that I hated both of them. They’re set in Clare in the 1950s and I found them Oirish and sentimental. That said one of my book clubs loved, loved, loved “This is Happiness”. I hated it and literally every other person in the room adored it. In fact two of them had bought several copies to give as presents (bleurgh). I have never had this before in all my years with this book club where one person hated the book and everyone else didn’t just like it but loved it. My book club is with the majority as these books are hugely popular and one of Mr. Williams’s books was long-listed for the Booker. You’ll just have to read them yourself and see what you think. Or you could go to the film of one of his books which is currently showing. There’s a hilarious review of the film by Donald Clarke in today’s Irish Times and it sums up my feelings on the books beautifully. He is generous to say that “Williams’s novel has a huge following and, in print, I don’t doubt the messages stand out uncompromised.” I mean, that definitely wouldn’t be my view. It sounds like the film is entirely true to his novelistic style and I can’t understand why I am weirdly keen to see it.
James by Percival Everett
This was brilliant; a retelling of Huckleberry Finn from the slave Jim’s perspective. It sounds a bit worthy but it’s clever and funny and sad. I would really recommend.
Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
On the strength of reading James, I thought I would reread Huckleberry Finn. I had read it as a child and found it so hard that in my head I thought it was really a book for adults; it is not a book for adults. I found it pretty shocking though. It brought home to me what it was like to be a slave in the American South like nothing else I’ve read. It was the careless everyday cruelty that did for me. Surprisingly hard going.
Funny Weather: Art in an Emergency by Olivia Laing
A series of essays mostly about contemporary art by a woman who looks at the world in a peculiar way. Really interesting but I’m still not sold on contemporary/modern/post-modern art.
We were Young by Niamh Campbell
This is a book set in the contemporary, arty, bohemian Dublin scene. I recognised almost all the locations and several of the arts events it features. The protagonist is a handsome, unlikable photography lecturer. Not a whole lot happens. I did not love it; I thought it was overwritten. However, as a friend of mine said, “If you like adjectives, this is the book for you.”
The Episode by Mary Ann Kenny
This was an interesting book and, notwithstanding the subject matter, very readable. It is written by a woman – about my own age – who had what we used to call a nervous breakdown after the sudden death of her husband. She is really writing the book to criticise the mental health services and she is still very angry about how she was treated in 2015. Certainly the book does make things seem grim but I couldn’t help thinking as I read through it that the system basically worked for her, though that would not be her view. Well worth a read.
Sarah Cecilia Harrison (1863-1941): Artist, Social Campaigner and City Councillor by Margarita Cappock
What an odd woman Ms. Harrison was but her heart was in the right place and she was a wonderful painter. I got this out of the library for the pictures really.
Not the End of the World: How we can be the first generation to build a sustainable planet by Hannah Ritchie
Quite worthy but heartening. Lots of information about how we can turn the tide on climate change and how much we have achieved already although, certainly, there is still much to do. If you are feeling gloomy on the climate change front – and given this summer’s weather, it’s hard not to – this will cheer you up.
Orbital by Samantha Harvey
This is a short book about astronauts in orbit and it took me forever to read. Very beautifully written and so on but tedious to me. It won the Booker Prize, often a red flag for me. I went to a talk by Paul Murray and he said that he loved to write and sometimes with books, authors find the writing very hard and each word is wrung from them. He said that there was a recent very successful short novel where he thought that this was the case; he didn’t mention the novel but I would bet my bottom dollar that it was this one.
Quickly while they still have horses by Jan Carson
A book of short stories by this brilliant author from Northern Ireland. I loved every one of these even though they contain magical realism which I previously thought I loathed. She has a new book out soon. Rejoice.
The Other Day by Dorothy Whipple
I found this description by the author of her middle-class, happy childhood in the 1890s and early 1900s delightful in every way. Even though it is a long time ago it is so recognisable; the triumphs and disasters of childhood are beautifully evoked. A lovely, lovely read.
Me Before You by Jojo Moyes
I saw an enthusiastic review of this somewhere and thought I would give it a go. It is romantic fiction though, plot twist, the hero is quadriplegic. The writing is grand and I did enjoy reading it but, it was somehow unrewarding, I don’t know that I would try another.
Space on my Hands by Frederic Brown
This was from the box of 50s and 60s science fiction novels that my mother had in the attic when I was growing up. I don’t know why the box was in the attic, possibly a fatal lack of shelf space downstairs. I read them all many times and somehow, I don’t know how – perhaps one of the children brought it up from Cork – this book of short stories ended up in my house and we found it in the great shelf reorganisation. I thought I’d give it a read for old time’s sake. It’s not too bad. It does suffer from the great flaw which puts Mr. Waffle off sci-fi; all plot and no character development. But I enjoy plot. It is, of course, very much of its time. I was amazed to see that it is still in print (first published 1951). Not the worst, if sci-fi is your thing.
Glorious Exploits by Ferdia Lennon
This got exceptionally good reviews and I was curious to read it. As part of the great shelf reorganisation, we got rid of the Princess’s old bookshelves and replaced them with the better ones from downstairs. In the course of this I found a proof copy of this very book on her shelves. On the one hand, I was glad as I had wanted to read it, on the other hand I was bitter, how come no one ever gives me a proof copy? We move on.
This is a work set in the ancient Greek city of Syracuse (in Sicily). The Syracusans have defeated the Athenians and the remnants of the Athenian army are starving to death in a quarry outside Syracuse. All this is apparently historically accurate. Two friends decide to put on a play with the Athenians. One of them is a big, big Euripides fan. The narrator – one of the two friends – is given a strong Dublin accent and I read an interview with the author where he explains that Syracuse to Athens is like Dublin to London. Anyway, it’s clever and very well done. An Irish legendary figure appears as a deus ex machina. I’m sure there are lots of other clever things I didn’t get as my knowledge of Euripides is limited (that is generous). Overall, a bit hard going in parts but interesting and the author can write. If you’re into the ancient Greeks, I think you would love it.
The Eye of the Beholder
I was at the Hugh Lane Gallery recently. Francis Bacon’s studio has been reconstructed in the Gallery; and has been a big attraction there for many years. It was brought piece by piece from his London attic and re-instated in the Hugh Lane. I am not a big Francis Bacon fan but it is interesting. I took a photo and sent it in to the family group chat captioning it “My worst nightmare”. A hilarious line reflecting on the artist’s studio and my own slight obsession with tidiness. Like many of these hilarious lines of mine, it went unread in the family group chat except by my saintly husband who, on first glance thought it was actually my parents’ attic in its glory days (it has now been tamed by my sister in a project stretching over many months). I have to say, actually, it does resemble the attic except there is marginally more floor space in the studio.
Arts etc.
Mr. Waffle and I went to see “Dr. Strangelove” at the Bord Gáis Energy Theatre. It’s where all the big shows that come to Dublin go. I find it unsatisfactory as a theatre as it is ginormous and a bit lacking in atmosphere. The sets were amazing but the play only alright. I don’t mind Steve Coogan but I don’t love, love, love him. However, the rest of the audience were apparently only there to see him and when he appeared on stage he had to break character to acknowledge the rapturous applause. I only went because Armando Ianucci was involved and I love him and had heard him interviewed about the play on “This American Life”. Honestly, I wouldn’t say it was his best work but I may have been prejudiced by the fact that everyone else found it hilarious and it only occasionally made me smile. I thought the woman beside me was going to have to be stretchered out such was her hilarity while I smiled thinly at the very odd joke that appealed.
Michael went to see “And Juliet” which was recommended by a commenter. His friend got tickets for her birthday and invited him along. He found it reasonably enjoyable. I am coming to the conclusion that my family may be hard to please.
I took a half day from work to see Michael in a lunchtime performance of a college play. It is doubtless his mother’s prejudice but I thought he was really excellent.
Mr. Waffle and I investigated an Argentinian Bakery in the Liberties. It is called Bakeology and I would recommend. Our empanada needs are met for the foreseeable.
There has been plenty of cinema in my life since I was here last. I enjoyed “A Real Pain” as did the Oscar voters. “Bridget Jones” did not trouble the Oscars but I must say I really enjoyed it. A friend and I went for dinner after work and then saw it in the Stella in Rathmines which I would recommend for a little treat.
Mr. Waffle and I went to see another Iranian film – “Seed of the Sacred Fig”. You would want to be in the whole of your health for these Iranian films, I will say that. Very worthy and good and all but I was a bit wrung by the end.
As part of the festival of the Francophonie we went to a Moroccan film (and international buffet – can I deny that this was the major temptation? I can not). The film was “Animalia” and it’s about a girl who marries into a rich family and struggles to adapt; she stays at home one day while they are all out and – plot twist – gets cut off from the family by an alien invasion. The budget doesn’t really stretch to aliens so it’s just lights in the sky and fog. It was ok, I would say. Buffet was great – lots of Moroccan specialties. We met the Moroccan ambassador (who had introduced the film) having a cigarette outside afterwards. “What did you think?” he asked. “It was delicious,” said Mr. Waffle. “No, the film,” I hissed. “Um, very thought provoking,” he said politely. “It was a bit strange alright,” said the ambassador “and what a time to screen it early evening during Ramadan.” Not something that had occurred to me, I must confess, but it certainly made me think that he had performed his part admirably for someone who hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since before dawn.
I saw Edmund de Waal give a talk in the Chester Beatty library. I found him an amazing, fascinating, heart warming speaker. If you ever get a chance you should definitely go and see him. This was all the more amazing as it was online (only the elect got in person tickets and I was consumed with envy as he passed around netsuke for people to hold) and online things are, as we all know, not as good as in person, and it was still absolutely amazing.
I went to a talk on the Flying Dutchman in art which appeared to be largely a plug for the Flying Dutchman which the Irish National Opera are running in the Bord Gáis theatre. My guess is that they may have overestimated the appetite of the Irish public for opera (it’s a big, big venue) but who knows? I once saw “Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg” from the gods of the Brussels opera house and it has effectively extinguished any desire I might have to ever see another Wagner opera so it’s a no from me. I was chatting to the INO people afterwards and told them how the Princess had done a project with them during Covid and it had saved her sanity. Like many another thing the Princess does, her application to take part in this project took her parents by surprise as we are not particularly in opera and she had certainly never seemed interested before but then she is a constant series of surprises to her parents.* This lovely woman Sharon Carty put in loads of time online one on one with her and she has an abiding enthusiasm for and interest in opera. So, it’s not like I’m not grateful to the INO, just not grateful enough.
I also went to a talk on Mazzolino and the renaissance in Ferrara. I mean, alright. Can’t say that I now love Mazzolino of whom I was entirely ignorant previously but interesting enough. I went to a talk on Sarah Cecilia Harrison whose portraits I really liked and who seems, in life, to have been a very interesting and extremely contrary person. Finally, in visual arts news did I mention that I went to a talk on Eileen Gray? I will say this, the more I hear about Le Corbusier the less I like him. While I was there I had a look at the Harry Clarke stained glass which is temporarily in Dublin as Cork’s Crawford museum is closed for renovations. It was strange to see these old friends in new surroundings. I think the detail below is a self-portrait of the artist. A handsome man whose private life was, I believe, complex.
Let me throw in some more pictures of his glass from Bewley’s cafe in Grafton street. Because I can.
As I mentioned above, the Crawford Gallery is closed for renovations. Alas, alack. It’s not open again until 2027. It is being extended. Here is the text about the extension.
Here is the artist’s impression of the extension.
Really, the glass box on the roof will ensure that the character of the gallery is “maintained and enhanced with great sensitivity”? It’s appalling. I mean, I feel you King Charles. I’m sure it will be lovely from the inside but it’s quite dreadful from the outside.
My sister is still cleaning out my parents’ house and I am generally pretty ruthless about saying I don’t want things but books are my Achilles heel. My grandmother bought a large mahogany book case and its contents from Canon Mulcahy in Kilmallock at some point – maybe in the 40s. The bookcase and all its contents made their way to my parents’ house probably in about 1970. This means that my parents’ house had a fine collection of 19th and early 20th century books with a strong focus on theology, if that was your thing, but also other books: Thom’s directories, etiquette books, (worthy) novels etc. My sister pulled from this range of books a physics primer from 1874 and asked whether I would like it. Well, as you can imagine, I should have said no but we have a physics student in the house and I was weak and said yes. I showed it to my physics student who said a lot has changed in physics since 1874 but whose eye was caught by the name on the flyleaf. We found our man – JJ Joyce – in the census. He was a Jeremiah Joyce son of James W Joyce who was a successful businessman in Kilmallock and who was very active in the land league. Kilmallock (which has a great deal of local history for such a small place) has an active local history society and we were able to find out much more about James W. He was gaoled for his activities in the land league and kept a diary – it mostly seems a bit dull about managing his business back in Kilmallock – but look, look at this entry, what did he get sent to himself in Limerick gaol? Yes indeed, the physics primer which we now held in our little paws.
So that was pretty cool. I rang my sister to tell her and she thought I had discovered that the book was valuable. Alas, no. But still, my physics student brought it in to college where it was an object of fascination to the young people. One of them had an uncle in Kilmallock so he got to keep it. This seems a much better fate for it than any other I can imagine although I do wish I’d taken a photo.
Yesterday Mr. Waffle and I went on a nearly 3 hour walking tour of the city – v good, I recommend Arran Henderson for all your walking tour needs; I always learn something new and I have lived here a long time. As we were looking at a Dominican church he said how intellectual and clever the Dominicans were. As though reading the minds of his audience, he said, “Have you heard the joke about the Dominicans and the Jesuits? As you know the Dominicans dealt with the Cathars and the Albigensian heresy and the Jesuits were set up as a counter reformation force. Have you ever met a Cathar?” The poor old Cathars. As we walked on Mr. Waffle murmured to me, “Just brute force, no subtlety or intelligence.”
In the afternoon, we went to a talk by fantastic author Jan Carson who I nearly saw in 2022 and have been keen to see since. The French literature festival put together an excellent programme – all free, you’ve got to love the French – and who was on it? No prizes. The links to French literature were a bit tenuous, I mean Jan Carson’s French publisher was there? I think Jan Carson is an extraordinarily talented writer and I loath magical realism which, honestly, is a big feature of her work but somehow it’s ok when she does it. But, you know, being a great writer does not necessarily translate to being a great speaker so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. As they say, I need not have worried.
I found her really interesting. She comes from a very strict religious background. She’s from Ballymena in the North and when she was a little girl there was a sign on the roundabout saying “Ballymena still says no” and she thought it meant to line dancing as she had heard so much against it from the pulpit. Her family seem to have been very strict: no cinema, no theatre and the Bible as, if not the only book, certainly the main book available for reading at home. She attributes her interest in magical realism to hearing sermons on the Book of Revelation every Sunday between ages 10 and 12. When asked about her family and community’s attitude to her work she said that that was the first question she was always asked. She told a very moving story about a children’s play which she wrote which is currently on in the Lyric theatre in Belfast. Her mother a woman of 70 who had never been inside a theatre before, came to see it and sat and cried throughout the show. The mother said, “All these people are here, and they’re enjoying themselves and you wrote this.”
After this very touching reply, the next question came from an older gent with a booming voice and apparently unshakeable self-confidence. “Which lady writers have influenced you?” he said. “Do you like Simone de Beauvoir?” There was some hilarious confusion as she had just not heard the word “lady” and thought he meant French writers but the interviewer clarified. “I like Flannery O’Connor,” Jan Carson offered helpfully. “Is he an American?” our patrician gentleman boomed back slightly disapprovingly. He seemed not one whit discomfited by the information that Flannery O’Connor was a woman and it was poor old Jan Carson who seemed momentarily discombobulated.
Anyway recommended and not as well attended as it should have been. A win for me I guess as I got her to sign a book for me and there was almost no queue. She mentioned that she has another new book out next year. Bound to be worth a read.
Any cultural outings of your own?
*Text received last Monday: “I’m on a plane on my way to Warsaw. Did I mention I was doing this???” Reader, she did not.
Is there anybody out there?
My father used to listen to the shipping forecast at night. I imagine he got into the habit when he was younger and sailed a lot.
When we moved house in the early 1980s something about the way the walls of the house conducted sounds meant that his radio seemed louder in my room than in his. I resigned myself to hearing the shipping forecast boomed into my bedroom. I’ve always been a good sleeper which was just as well.
When he was old and deaf, the volume was quite terrifying. When I stayed in Cork, I would sometimes sleep with my head under the pillow to avoid being startled awake by the sounds of “Sailing By” which honestly sounded like it was being played live in my bedroom.
Since he died, I don’t think that I’ve listened to the shipping forecast. Recently, however, my podcast feed suggested a show on the shipping forecast and I had a listen on my commute home for nostalgia’s sake. It made me unexpectedly sad and I cycled home with tears streaming down my face.
Then, I came across this Dickens quote:
There are very few moments in a man’s existence when he experiences so much ludicrous distress as when he is in pursuit of his own hat.
I was reminded vividly of the time a daring gust of wind blew my father’s flat cap off his head and – ultimately – into the river. He was extremely cross but the rest of us were helpless with laughter which, obviously, didn’t make him any less cross.
Maybe he’s sending me a sign.
Putting the Fun in Funeral: December Round Up – Part 1
Friday, November 29
Several men came and scalped the garden front and back. Overall I am delighted as it was getting out of control, although some precious plants were lost in the take no prisoners approach adopted. This before and after picture in no way conveys the extent of the haircut. I appreciate this is technically not December but look, close enough.
Friday, December 6
Faithful old Saint Nicholas delivered chocolate to Ireland and England as part of his lifelong obligation to those born in Belgium. The now adults in question are very firm on their understanding of St. Nicholas’s obligations in this regard.
That evening Mr. Waffle and I went to Cork for the funeral of my friend’s mother (our families were friends and I have known her and her parents my whole life). Her mother had died in England (where she had lived for many years) and it took – I kid you not – nearly three weeks to get the body back to Ireland for the funeral. My friend – who is an only child- said that she was inundated with texts from people saying “I totally understand if you have chosen to celebrate her life privately in your own way” basically a “you never told me about the funeral” message because no one could believe it would take so long. I myself was on constant refresh on rip.ie. It’s not all just glamour. Regular readers will be interested to hear that rip.ie has been bought by the Irish Times and from January 1, 2025 putting a death notice up on the site will cost €100 (cost to date – zero). The nation is up in arms. Honestly though it will just turn up on the undertaker’s bill, be paid for from the estate and on the scale of things, it won’t really stand out but still and all.
Anyway, Mr. Waffle and I decided to go to Cork for the weekend. He booked the Imperial on the South Mall which was once the height of glamour (it’s where Grace Kelly stayed when she came to Cork, it’s where Michael Collins stayed the night before he was shot and it’s where my great uncle Jack and great aunt Cecilia stayed – for three months (!) in the 60s while getting work done on their house – when they retired back to Cork after years in England). I was quite excited, I can tell you. We took our bikes on the train. We actually met my brother on the train who was returning from Dublin, also with his bike in the guard’s van. When we were chatting he said that he would come to the funeral also. This was great and everything but I had specifically asked my sister to put me and Mr. Waffle on her car insurance so that we could drive down in her car. She was away but had said we could borrow her car drive to Clonakilty where the funeral was. My brother is already a named driver on her policy and was planning to drive her car down so that was €80 well spent. Sigh. As I say to my children about their Uncle’s unpredictability “He’s not a tame uncle, you know.” (Small prize if you know the literary reference I am making).
The Dublin to Cork train service is fantastic but on this occasion it was not fantastic and we arrived 55 minutes late (more than an hour they refund you half your ticket value – not bitter at all). Mr. Waffle enjoyed the hilarious series of messages on the way down including the, honestly desperate sounding one, “If there’s a train engineer on board can he or she please get out on to the platform” and the not reassuring, “there’s a problem with the engine but she’s still going and we’ll do the best we can.” Percy French eat your heart out etc.
I had booked us dinner at the last sitting of Jacob’s on the Mall and when I rang to see whether they could accommodate us later than 9.30 it was with regret but no surprise that I discovered that they could not. Our train pulled into the station at 9.35.
I mean was I delighted to hop on my bike as Storm Darragh was raging? Not really, I have to concede. My smugness did not keep me dry (don’t worry, my rain gear did). When we got to the hotel, despite Mr. Waffle having checked, they were not, in fact, set up for bikes. However, after thinking it over for a bit a nice Polish man (in Cork 20 years) decided that they could be stored in the boardroom. Mr. Waffle brought his own up the carpeted stairs but the nice Polish man took my dripping bike up at speed. They looked very comfortable there leaning nonchalantly against the book shelves but I’m not sure that you could say that it was, strictly speaking, designated bike parking.
At this stage it was nearly 10 and the hotel was not serving food. Mr. Waffle who, I sometimes think does not value his life, suggested we could go to “Fast Al’s pizza”. We went across the road to a bar/tapas place that didn’t start serving food until 10.45. Just that little bit too authentic. I asked them if they could recommend anywhere and they said that there was a new taco place at the end of the street. We splashed down the road to this establishment and it’s bright fluorescent interior. This was my dinner:
Here is what I missed:
Any port in a storm, I guess. And, in fairness the staff were very nice but it wasn’t really what I was hoping for.
We rang home to make sure that someone had fed the cat and then rang back to check that the children had eaten themselves. Yes on both counts.
Our bedroom in the hotel was fine and not very expensive but it compared unfavourably with the public spaces. The hotel is undergoing a renovation and it is probably timely.
Not my best day.
Saturday, December 7
Next morning, once Mr. Waffle had picked up a new shirt (a packing malfunction), it was up on the bikes again (rescued from their boardroom haven by our Polish friend) and out to my brother’s house in the lashing rain to drive together to Clonakilty. He had offered to pick us up at our hotel but I was so concerned that he would be late that I had insisted on going to him. His attitude is that it doesn’t matter if you are late for the mass, the important thing is that you are there to sympathise afterwards and go for lunch. I do not subscribe to this view and having gone to the trouble of coming to Cork the night before I was not going to be late for the funeral. I was totally vindicated in my approach in that my brother was still in bed when we arrived at his house. He was partially vindicated in that we arrived half an hour early for the mass which even I would concede was a bit early.
I was really pleased to be at the funeral and see my friend and I think she was glad to see us including in particular my wayward brother. There were lots of people I knew at the funeral, mutual friends and relations and, indeed, the undertaker who is now pretty familiar to me. The rain held off at the cemetery and that was something. It was a particular mercy for my friend’s English cousins who were on their first visit to Ireland and had the previous evening had their flight diverted from Cork to Dublin, driven down from Dublin to Clonakilty through the storm and arrived in the early hours of the morning. God love them, they definitely needed a break from the weather.
At lunch I was seated near a very nice priest who was a friend of the deceased. He was a fellow Corkonian and I enjoyed our conversation wherein we placed each other on the social scale (he came to rest just above me). He attended the school in Cork where traditionally all the sons of the merchant princes went; my father attended the school where the boys at the next rung of the ladder went – “two households both alike in dignity” etc. While the results achieved by the boys attending the former were generally mediocre – they had family businesses to go into – the latter school was known for its excellent academic results. I commented to my new friend that the results in the former school had improved immensely (really quite extraordinary it has some of the best results in the country). My husband who had, crucially, not been following the conversation in detail said, “Isn’t that where you say that all the rich but thick boys used to go?” My new friend took it in good part but also took the opportunity to point out to me that the former president of his past pupils’ union was sitting opposite.
He (the priest) had done his PhD in Germany under none other than Cardinal Ratzinger of whom he seemed very fond. Typical of his schooling that he would get to work with the big names, of course.
Sitting opposite me was a man from Clonakilty who was a cousin of the deceased. He was so interesting. He was, I think retired but while working had been involved with a furniture factory. This had seen him working in Northern Ireland during the troubles and in China in the 80s, I think, when it was even further away than it is now. He described how once when he was staying in Carrickfergus – a very loyalist town outside Belfast – he asked to get a taxi into St Gall’s GAA club in the city. Apparently reception told him that no one from Carrickfergus would take a taxi to West Belfast. I see. His best story, however, involved a statue to Michael Collins. Although Michael Collins was from Clonakilty for a very long time there was no statue to him as it was a bit politically contentious and unclear who would unveil it. However, after the Liam Neeson film a statue went up and Liam Neeson himself, very decently, came to unveil it dealing with any political issues. Our friend was at the reception for the great and the good at which Liam Neeson was the guest of honour. Much drink was taken and a select group of half a dozen, including our friend and Mr. Neeson, went out to the town looking for further refreshment. A car drew up beside them. “Liam, get in” said a voice from within. He resisted. The voice insisted pretty firmly. Eventually he got in. We were agog, who was it? His Hollywood bodyguard? His minder? His agent? Apparently it was his mother. I love an Irish Mammy story.
We drove back up to the city and, acting on an excellent tip from my brother, went to Orso for dinner. They only take walk ins and this was a godsend when everywhere except the taco place was fully booked for a Saturday night in December. We went for a stroll around town and took a turn on the big wheel while waiting for our table to come free but it was a bit cold and damp.
We found ourselves at a bit of a loose end after our early dinner so went to see “Conclave“. I wouldn’t entirely recommend but it does look beautiful. It’s about electing a pope and Ralph Fiennes is terrific in it. I am still finding it a bit strange to be in Cork without my parents which I know is faintly ridiculous but there we are.
We got a message from the children that another spatula arrived with the shopping delivery. We lost one a couple of weeks ago and due to some errors in the purchasing department we are now the owners of three shiny new ones. Spatulas for everyone for Christmas.
Sunday, December 8
We headed back to Dublin on the train. “Wasn’t it great how easy it was to bring the bikes on the train?” I said to Mr. Waffle. He conceded that it was but then asked the killer question, “But did we need the bikes?” On reflection, I regret to inform you that, on balance, it would probably have been more convenient not to have had the bikes in Cork. Bitter.
More December thrills to come. Stay with us as Ira Glass would say.