Siblings

Further Gallivanting

10 June, 2023
Posted in: Princess, Siblings, Travel

In the middle of May, I went to England for a couple of days. Stay tuned for a thrilling description of my trip.

Thursday, 18 May

First, I visited herself just for 24 hours. We had such a nice time. She is a devotee of the schedule and she sends me a programme in advance of my visits. “Weird,” you say. “Absolute genius,” I say. It allows us to tweak and decide exactly what we are going to do and when packing maximum value into any visit. Also, she books stuff. On arrival, after dropping my things at the lovely guest house, we went straight for afternoon tea. There’s a girl who knows her mother. When I don’t see her for a long time, I forget what great company she is, we did have a nice time.

Sadly, she was slightly under the weather and went back to her room to recuperate after the tea but thanks to the schedule (TM), I was able to take myself to the piano recital she had booked us into. It was free (I love free) and absolutely amazing. I am not generally a fan of musical concerts of any genre (I know, shoot me) but this was an event aimed at students and there was just the right amount of explanation and music. The setting – England on a summer evening, old buildings, wisteria out – was absolutely beautiful. I don’t know when I have enjoyed a concert more.

Later I went to a student poetry reading event where herself was going to be reading some poetry. It was informal in nature and upstairs in a pub. As I arrived late, in the middle of herself reading a poem, the assembled young people chorused “Hello [the Princess’s] Mum!” You get the vibe. I was the oldest person there by about 100 years. Surprisingly enjoyable. English young people are very polite and quite formal in some ways. Whenever one of them was about to read a slightly risqué poem he or she would say, “Sorry [Princess’s] Mum.”

Friday, 19 May

We went out for a lovely breakfast herself had booked. I was pleased to see that she is back on her bike. I believe it spent its first year in storage and I was beginning to fear that it might have been an unwise investment. Here is a selfie using the iphone portrait filter which I love because it removes all my wrinkles and she hates because it makes her look like she’s made of plastic but whose blog is it, I’d like to know?

We had a little boat tour and the guide said that we were like sisters. I was pleased herself was outraged. Until the guide said, “No not that you look like sisters but the way you bicker is like sisters.” Cue reversal of sentiments.

Afterwards we went to her room where we were able to shelter from torrential rain. This was particularly important to genius here who decided to travel without a coat. Though, in fairness to me aside from that, arguably fatal, flaw, my packing was impeccable and I wore everything I brought.

A slight let up in the rain gave me a chance to scurry to the art gallery where I had a quick look around before meeting herself back in the hotel. Then, she escorted me to the bus stop, told me where to get off and how to get to my destination in London where I was meeting my sister. Very competent too. It’s weird that she knows London so much better than me now. Your correspondent struggled to find the underground entrance (right beside the bus stop) and then floundered around finally reaching her hotel safely without undue incident.

My sister was arriving in very late so I arranged to meet for dinner an old, old friend who I first met more than 30 years ago when we were both the most junior, the lowest form of life in our jobs in Brussels. We partied, we rose up the ranks a bit, we went to each others weddings then, we both moved out of Brussels permanently – me to Dublin, her to London – and had less opportunity to see each other. But R and I have stayed in touch over the years with Christmas cards and the odd whatsapp messages. When we were in Finland some years ago, we thought we might catch up with them on the Åland islands (her husband is from there and they go there in the summer). We did not. Åland is a long way from mainland Finland, I will tell you that. I digress. Anyhow, I’d say it’s at least 15 yeas since I’ve seen her. I was worried that I might not recognise her but I need not have feared, she looks broadly unchanged. It was so much fun to go for dinner with her. She had lots of news – sometimes that doesn’t work so well when you are apart for a long time – but it worked really well. It was great fun. Even though some of her news and mine was a bit grim, she had that very day installed her father in a nursing home, it was overall brilliant and so interesting to hear about each other’s lives and families in detail.

Inspired by our meeting we got in contact with some other (female, as it happens) members of our gang from that long ago time. They’re all on the internet. I was struck by their lofty job titles. It occurred to me that we are the first generation of women whose careers have progressed that way. Most of my mother’s friends went to college but very few of them remained in the work force once they got married. Those who did, like my mother, almost all had part-time roles which were never going to be the most senior (that’s the way of overwhelmingly female part time jobs, perhaps a subject for another post). I can honestly only think of one senior professional women who worked full time among my mother’s friends and she was unmarried. My mother’s friends’ husbands sure, yes, they had senior jobs but their wives whom they had often met in college not so much. Now, I know tons of senior women across many walks of life. If you needed a professional female role model in 1980s Ireland, basically, good luck with that, whereas now, I feel that things are very, very different. I am certainly not saying that things are perfect but, maybe worth acknowledging how much better things are than they were.

Saturday, May 20

My sister having arrived the previous evening, we had breakfast together in the hotel. After considering our options we decided to make a little trip that turned out to be something of a pilgrimage. I know that this is a hotly contested issue but I would say that for most of his lifetime my father was Samuel Johnson’s greatest living fan.

So, we went to Samuel Johnson’s house. We loved it and, if you are a fan of the great lexicographer (and who isn’t?), I can truly recommend it. It is run by volunteers and the little shop is full of enthusiasts telling their favourite Samuel Johnson stories. I returned home weighed down by Dr. Johnson tat.

My saintly sister-in-law and her family are based in London. I sent her a craven message saying that the shortness of my stay did not permit me seeing her and her loving family (of whom I am genuinely v fond) and, to add insult to injury, could she recommend some good places to eat. I find she is extremely solid on such recommendations. She did not let me down.

We went to Noble Rot on Lambs Conduit Street for lunch and I can heartily recommend both the lunch venue itself and the delightful browsability (is this a word? you know what I mean) of the street itself. Sadly, the lovely Persephone book shop which used to be here has decamped to Bath (note to self for future reference) but otherwise an entire success.

My sister decided to go back to the hotel before dinner but I was determined to get into the National Gallery. As predicted by my esteemed sister-in-law, it was heaving. I was a bit surprised, I definitely remember having it more or less to myself in the past. Maybe it was the time of year or the fact that it was a Saturday. Nevertheless, very pleasing. As a friend of mine says, every room you walk into, it’s like seeing an old friend on the wall.

We had dinner in the Piazza in the Royal Opera House. Yet another stellar recommendation from my sister-in-law. Sadly, as it was a beautiful evening, we were not seated on the balcony and I was too afraid to ask to be moved. I am sometimes a timid, shy creature. I later overheard a waiter refusing to sit someone on the balcony as it was for snacks only, that was all that was wanting to set the seal of delight on my evening; I was not missing out after all.

I’d booked us in to a play (2.22 Ghost) which was reasonably enjoyable though a certain amount of jump scares which I do not love. I was irritated by one of the main characters who was a Catholic (code for will believe anything which was in itself annoying). She kept blessing herself at various dramatic moments with her left hand. Surely to God there is someone left in England who could put them right on that.

Sunday, May 21

Our hotel, paid for by my kind sister from her hotel points (hurrah) was in South Kensington so we thought we would take a look around the Natural History Museum. Heaving with a big (though ultimately speedy) queue to get in.

I was quite taken aback by how crowded the London cultural institutions were although the V&A seemed reasonably empty, at least there was no queue to get in. My sister is not a fan though so we gave it a skip.

We went to mass in Brompton Oratory. There were a lot of people there who could have given the “2.22 Ghost” people a steer on how to bless yourself. The priest was from a non-English speaking country but spoke really good English aside from a problem with the “th” which is unfortunate as he was surrounded by people who have really mastered that trying sound. Vatican 2 appears not to have reached Brompton as the priest said mass with his back to the congregation. There were some women in mantillas which is something I have literally never seen in a church in Ireland. I noted that there was a Tridentine mass available earlier in the morning. I’d say you’d get the full pre-Vatican 2 experience there.

Inevitably, everyone knelt for communion at the altar rails which is something that has really gone out in Irish churches but was a feature of my youth. I was surprised how quickly I remembered the ritual of lining up behind and going forward in a wave as the previous kneelers rose. This reminds me of my friend who had a crush on the boy up the road (one of a family of seven all of whom were ferociously bright and brilliant at sport, including this boy who was also very handsome – I see from the internet that he is a doctor in the US now and, although he has kept his hair, he is not what he was in 1983). He was an altar boy in her local church. It was non-stop fun being a teenager in the 80s in Cork. When the priest came to give out communion, she was kneeling at the altar rails. The handsome altar boy followed behind the priest holding – as was standard – a golden salver under your chin (I am sure there is a proper name for this, but I do not know it) in case of disaster, I guess. Anyway my friend was fixated on the altar boy instead of turning her mind to higher things and when the priest said, “Body of Christ,” to be clear correct response, “Amen” she said, “Hello”. Which I still find hilarious.

One of the prayers of the faithful was for King Charles and a just and lengthy (seems unlikely) reign for him, it was kind of wrapped up in world peace and I faithfully gave the response but I noted that my sister did not, doubtless concerned that she was being fooled into swearing fealty to himself.

After mass we went to lunch in a nearby Pain Quotidien (my ardour remains undimmed and I was pleased to see that it was heaving unlike the ones in NY which are busy closing down).

Then my sister was off to see her friend in distant Chiswick and I headed to the airport. I got there in very good time. The “two hours before your flight takes off” is excessive. Not helped at all by the fact that my flight was late.

Mr. Waffle had to fly out on a work trip on the Sunday night so he left the car in the short term car park and I picked it up. I felt that this had the potential to go disastrously wrong but all was well although Aer Lingus’s delay meant that the parking cost me €16.50 which was still a lot cheaper than both of us getting taxis. So, a win I guess.

The Circular Economy

15 May, 2023
Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Siblings

My sister is a big fan of the Olio app. It is designed for food but now you can give away stuff as well. She has a lot of material to get rid of. It seems to work perfectly for her but I have found it a bit hit and miss. I got rid of a spare new car jack (don’t ask) in no time; the slightly wonky pedal bin took a bit longer and literally no one is interested in a perfectly good paddling pool (5,000 views and counting but still not a nibble). Mostly the people collecting seem to be young people and immigrants.

I was giving away an IKEA Malm chest of drawers and this man contacted me. He asked could he carry it on his bike (no, are you kidding me?) would he be able to take it on a trolley (maybe but not very far). Anyway, as is the way with Olio, he missed a number of pick ups. His tone in messages was terse but he was clearly not a native English speaker so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Finally, he asked would I drive him and the Malm to his place. Because I am a complete sap I said yes. My whole family laughed at me. Did he come when he said he would? No. When he eventually came, we put the Malm in the car and drove to his place. He was lovely and his wife was too, they’d just moved to Ireland and were settling in. I felt a warm glow and that even if I am a sap, it all came good in the end.

I wonder will anyone ever take my paddling pool?

He’s Not A Tame Uncle, You Know

13 May, 2023
Posted in: Princess, Siblings

Despite what you might think on reading this blog, I am actually very fond of my brother. He is maddening but hilarious. He lives life very much in the here and now. He has left France (on a bit of a whim) and returned to the land of his ancestors. He was staying with us last week (a plus – he doesn’t seem to have caught Covid here). Consider this text message exchange where I ask about his dinner plans.

Herself went out to France to him for a holiday before he came home. He was very good to her and took her skiing which she enjoyed.

Her ski gear was in Dublin and he took it back to France in advance of her trip. He insisted in taking it in a tote bag though I had many better suggestions. Here is his description to myself and my sister of his trip back to Geneva with the gear.

Stressful [trip] back. There was only like 10 mins to make the connection to geneva at cdg. Ran like a mad man stuff falling everywhere. [The Princess’s] ski gear was a curse. Left a bright pink sock at security and they called after me. Had to run back and take I lacked the time and linguistic capability to explain. V embarrassing still made it just about [by] running. Good news though my McGivor knife [Swiss Army] was in the place I stashed it in Geneva (Hel, just to fill [you] in I had accidentally brought the penknife [you gave] me for Xmas to the airport. Confiscation seemed certain. But in the tradition of the great McGivor himself I stashed it in a plant in the departure area. And was there when I got back).

Now that he is back in the jurisdiction I foresee much higher levels of spontaneity in all of our lives.

Was It For This?*

6 May, 2023
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Reading etc., Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

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.

May Bank Holiday Round Up

3 May, 2023
Posted in: Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

I have been absent. My blog has been unwell but now, I think, I hope, that all is well. I have paid a man money and he has resolved matters. It was pleasing that even the tech expert was baffled by what had happened and had to himself engage with my webhost with various questions I could in no way understand.

You find me languishing at home with a slight head cold after a very busy time. Thrills.

First up, I have attended my last parent council meeting. Eight years of indentured servitude over. Lord, I found it tedious, though occasionally useful. For reasons that are too dull to explain I got a hamper at our last meeting and it contained a lifetime’s worth of chocolate and a presentation box of Teeling’s whiskey which I was planning to give away as a present but before I could do so, Michael broke it. Win some, lose some.

I went to the pastels exhibition in the National Gallery which I would really recommend. Who did I see there only Elizabeth Farren, later Countess of Derby? You will recall that I saw a beautiful full length portrait of her with a muff in New York. Let me remind you.

The one in the National Gallery was much less flattering but it disclosed the vital information, inexplicably ignored by the Met curators, that she was originally from Cork. Good girl yourself, Elizabeth.

Mr. Waffle and I went to see an amateur production of “The Importance of Being Earnest”. Not too bad actually and we had dinner after in our friends’ house. Our hospitality debt is currently of almost unfeasible proportions.

Last Friday, we had a woman who used to mind the children when they were small around for tea. She was super-nice and always adored the children and they were very fond of her too. She was delighted to see the boys and they were saintly and talked to her for ages, particularly Michael who stayed for her full two and a half hour visit (Dan had training). Her health has not been great and I think she’s quite lonely. She looked amazingly well though. We had a long chat and one of the things she said was that her first language was Alsacienne (sp?) but none of the young people speak it now which is a shame. I am a big Francophile but I think their attitude to minority languages leaves a lot to be desired. Obviously Alsace is a very contested part of France and she talked a bit about her parents’ hair raising experiences during the second world war. And also her own hair raising experiences of trying to get a new flat in Dublin when her landlord sold up. She’s in housing for older people now and she has a nice small apartment and she can stay there indefinitely. She’s very pleased but as it only came through a fortnight before she had to vacate her previous accommodation, it took a lot out of her.

On Saturday night, the boys and I went to see Foil, Arms and Hog in Vicar Street. Honestly, they’re hilarious.

A couple of weeks ago, a guy I had gone out with in Rome in 1993 contacted me. We hadn’t totally lost contact after I left Rome and we’d been to each other’s weddings in 2000 and 2001 respectively but we basically hadn’t seen each other since. His youngest daughter was doing an English course in Dublin and he and his wife were visiting, could we meet up? I invited them to dinner on the bank holiday Sunday (I thought we might have a barbecue, pause for laughter). He sent me a photo of his family, I sent him a photo of mine. None of us have got any younger but we have produced 6 beautiful children between us.

Anyway on the Sunday they arrived. I nearly lost my life not only were the parents and the English learning child in Dublin there but also the other two children. We had enough food but it was touch and go and only my ludicrous over-buying saved us from disaster. On the plus side, all the children got on like a house on fire. Their eldest (20) who looks like a sporty cool dude was a complete nerd on the inside and he and Michael really bonded. Almost the first words out of his mouth when he came into the house were “You have Risk Game of Thrones”. Sadly, this is true. It’s so strange – but really nice – to see people again after such a long time and their children who you never knew existed. The parents work in Geneva and they seem to have three Swiss children even though she is Spanish and he’s Italian. The children’s Spanish and Italian is perfect as is their French, obviously, and I can tell you their English is pretty good too.

On Monday, exhausted from our day of hosting, the boys stayed home to swot for the Leaving Cert which (terrifyingly) is now next month (they were pretty impressed by the more relaxed system that appears to apply in Switzerland and the Swiss kids were equally horrified by the ides of everything hanging on one exam). Mr. Waffle and I went to Kilkenny for a day out. Mr. Waffle’s great grandfather was a fireman in Kilkenny (thank you 1911 census records) and we went and inspected his house which was a solid brick built construction. And we also visited Kilkenny Castle – finally value for my OPW family card – and did the tour. I was, yet again, so impressed by the quality of the OPW tour guides. One of the first inhabitants of the castle in the early 1200s was Isabel de Clare who said the guide, inherited a lot of her land from her grandfather who was a king. Could this be the daughter of Richard de Clare or Strongbow who basically started the 800 years of oppression? It could indeed and the guide threw in for free that Isabel and her mother Aoife are buried in Tintern Abbey in Wales which I am now keen to visit.

And my brother pitched up at our house on Monday with all his worldly belongings. He has got the ferry home from France and is on his way back to Cork but working from Dublin for the week. He likes to keep us all on our toes.

And how was your own bank holiday weekend?

Random St Patrick’s Week Round Up

14 March, 2023
Posted in: Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Travel, Twins

I have had a busy week. I was in Kildare Village during the week. I find this very difficult. It’s an out of town shopping centre in thrall to the car. A completely privatised space with the shopping area unrelated to Ireland and more American architecturally than anything else. It reminds me most of Disneyland Paris. You could be anywhere really. However, it is spotless and it has a Villeroy and Boch shop. And it is handy. I bought new luggage. And while I sneered, I also loved the pristine streets – there was a woman walking around with a dustpan and brush even though smoking is prohibited so less of a problem with the ubiquitous cigarette butts than on the public street – and the “public” toilets were spotless. I bought a jacket. Made in North Macedonia. Surprising.

I was amused by their choice of poetry in the flowerbeds. It just seemed an odd choice for somewhere so privatised and controlled. Kind of the opposite of woodland paths.

The play area had signs in a combination of languages I have not previously seen together.

Mr. Waffle was away during the week so the children and I had to struggle on alone. On seeing the table laid for dinner for three, Daniel commented, “It’s fewer all the time, someday it will just be for one, huh?”. Thank you Daniel. The fact that this thought had already occurred to me did not make his remarks any more welcome.

On Wednesday afternoon every socket in the house went. I consulted the internet, I rang Mr. Waffle abroad, I put a pathetic message out on the neighbourhood whatsapp group and I called three electricians to no avail. The fridge was gone, the heating was gone, the internet was gone. I was slightly despairing. Then I rang my sister who is handy. She suggested a number of solutions and we tried them all. Ultimately, we were able to get the downstairs sockets and the heating working. I have never been so grateful to her in my life. Then an electrician rang back and agreed to come the next day.

When the electrician arrived he discovered that the problem was the immersion. I didn’t even know the immersion switch existed (we have a boiler and I have poked at its control panel but I didn’t really know we had an immersion). “How long has this been on for?” the electrician asked sternly. I had to confess that since I had never known of its existence, possibly since we moved into the house 10 years ago. “Have you never heard of turning off the immersion?” he asked sternly. I have, of course I have, I just didn’t understand we had one. The immersion has a totemic importance in Irish lives and if you have no idea what I am talking about, I suggest that you watch this comedy routine through to the end to see what I mean. Now reflect on the fact that our immersion has been on for 10 years.

The electrician doesn’t even reckon we need it with the boiler. He left with the sockets restored, â‚¬140 and my conviction that he inadvertently took my phone charger as well (he denies same but where is it otherwise?). The savings we will make on our electricity bill, particularly in the current climate, will more than pay for a new charger, I suppose.

I have learnt all Duolingo has to teach me in Ukrainian, so I had a first lesson. Much work to be done.

I heard a funny story that tells you a bit about Ireland. Because of the way entry to our higher education system works, in the past, certainly, and possibly still today, many high achievers put both medicine and law on their application forms. The logic was that you didn’t want to let your “points” for university entrance go to waste. Medicine was always – and remains – the hardest course to get into and law was the next hardest (though I think this is now less true than it used to be). Although these are very different disciplines, I suppose they do have in common that they are the gateways to the traditional professions. Anyway, this story is about a woman who was managing partner in a big law firm and went home to the west of Ireland for a funeral. One of the elderly mourners met her and trying to place her asked, “Are you the girl who didnâ€™t get into medicine?” She was.

Herself is in Sofia. I am still scarred by my last time in Sofia but she was not deterred. She has confirmed that she is alive and it is snowing.

At mass this morning, the parish priest in his sermon said that after escaping from slavery in Ireland and before coming back to convert us all, St. Patrick went to Tours. Surprising. Apparently he was a first cousin of St Martin of Tours on his mother’s side (this is what the priest said). Can this be true? Having been to both Tours (you will recall herself spent some time there a number of years ago) and the St. Patrick museum in Downpatrick, I cannot say that I am familiar with this story. We live and learn.

My sister and her partner are coming to visit us this afternoon. I was beyond appalled to get this message from her.

Herself had expressed an interest in a small, uncomfortable (though not unattractive) sofa which used to belong to my parents. I thought confidently that it could stay in my sister’s house until herself was ready to take it into her own home (ten years? never? who knows?). I reckoned without my sister. It is on its way. I suppose it can go into the Princess’s bedroom which is already host to two armchairs and a gossip chair and is rapidly turning into a lumber room. Sigh.

In any event, a very happy St. Patrick’s Day to you.