Me: Do you ever look at my messages in the family whatsapp group?
Michael: No, I’m tired of New Yorker cartoons and sunsets.
Content Farm
Twins
Anois Teacht an Earraigh
It’s been a busy month. It would have been my mother’s 86th birthday on the 1st of February; the feast of St. Brigid (and from next year we’re going to get an extra bank holiday to celebrate it as well – a Covid dividend apparently). She was very fond of this poem and often quoted from it. Apparently we do all turn into our mothers.
At mass a small child was running around the church. I recognised her mother and realised that she was the last baby baptised before the pandemic started (I mean I think that the church was still baptising away, but the pre-baptism meeting with the outreach team was halted for the duration of the pandemic). It has been a long haul. Particularly for the parents of young children I would imagine.
Life is gradually getting back to normal. From tomorrow, we can stop wearing masks in most places. The other night Mr. Waffle went out for a drink with his friends; “just like a real boy,” said Daniel who in his sister’s absence is bidding fair to become our most sarcastic resident. It is not, however, that he never met his friends in the pub before but that it has been a couple of years since he has done so and the boys have just forgotten what it was like before.
Mr. Waffle and I went to the cinema for the first time since the pandemic started (if you don’t count the time we went to see the Met live streamed and I really don’t). We saw Belfast. It got rave reviews and I did quite enjoy it but it wasn’t as fantastic as everyone said. I asked my friend from Belfast (who grew up six minutes walk away from Kenneth Branagh’s street) what he thought and he said he felt that broadly it was quite realistic – though no one is buying that after a Presbyterian funeral the mourners were invited to do a bit of singing and dancing. My friend did comment that he felt Branagh really wanted it to be a musical but lacked the nerve to follow through on that ambition – you can see how a musical about the start of the Troubles might be.. challenging. Once you’ve heard that it’s hard to shake that insight. I was surprised how much a working-class Protestant childhood in Belfast in the 60s was like a middle-class Catholic childhood in Cork in the 70s. They even had the same Christmas tree as us. And also, a favourite song of my father’s – from some film I think – “Do not forsake me oh my darling” was featured on the soundtrack. I don’t think I’ve heard it since he died.
February is rugby season and Dan has been to see see the Irish team lose to France with his uncle a couple of weeks ago (did you see anyone you knew at the match? yes another uncle from the other side of the family – Ireland is tiny) and win against Italy today. Neither entirely satisfactory – the first for obvious reasons and the second because it was a massacre. Oh well. I remember two years ago when lock down started during the six nations – I am not a massive rugby fan but I am so glad to see it back. Poor Daniel has been injured again in GAA (no matches or training for a week says the physio), at least it isn’t rugby, I suppose, where his never give up attitude could be quite terrifying.
We had friends round to dinner. We went to an exhibition (on the Treaty in Dublin Castle – a bit dull but worthy and, you know, an exhibition).
My sister and I went on a food tasting tour in Cork. Not bad but it started at 10.30 and the first bite of food did not pass our lips until 11.45. Can I tell you how much I regretted skipping breakfast so that I would have room for all the food I was going to taste? Anyway, the best tip was always book a food tour when you go to a new city as, by definition, it will be run by people who love food and will be able to give you great restaurant tips for your stay. I give you this for free.
The tour guide described how he met Prince Albert of Monaco when he (the tour guide) was doing some yacht racing and Prince Albert asked him where he was from. Our guide said Ireland and Prince Albert said, “My mother was Irish.” “I know,” said the guide. I quite liked the modest assumption of Albert that we might not know who his mother was. She was American, of course, but we can be flexible when it suits us. She stayed in the Imperial Hotel when she came to Cork, if you’re interested. It’s also where I got my first morsel of food when on the food tour and where my granny and Aunt Cecilia used to meet for afternoon tea on a Saturday. A historic spot.
In other, it’s all over bar the shouting, news herself had some school friends visit her in England and then we came across to see her. God, it lashed rain. Due to a booking mishap we had to move accommodation during the two days we were there and we traipsed miserably about with our sodden bag rolling behind us.
However, notwithstanding the appalling climactic conditions, we had a lovely time overall. The Princess showed us around, found good places for us to eat and introduced us to her English friends (lovely, articulate, polite young people who were nice to her brothers – gold star). We went to a museum. I went to evensong where two of her friends sang (one of them is -gasp – Tiktok famous) and it was absolutely beautiful.
I said to her, “I see everyone’s wearing those pearls on their eyes now that you had a couple of years ago. ” Very fashion forward though I still think a bit daft looking. “Where did you get them?” I asked because they were definitely not available in the make up shops then. “From the wedding stationery bit of Eason’s,” she said. Maybe she’ll make a fortune yet as some kind of futurologist.
After our visit to herself in college, we went to London for a couple of days. Did you know that you can pay for transport in London with your contactless bank card? Hands down the most impressive transport innovation of my lifetime. Delighted.
We travelled by boat,
we went to the London Eye,
the Tower of London, Covent Garden, the British Museum (briefly to check out a complaint written in cuneiform which Daniel had seen on the internet), Hodge’s statue,
Leadenhall market (adjacent to Gracechurch street where, enthusiasts will remember Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner lived, Michael who spent the week reading Pride and Prejudice was resolutely unimpressed but I, a true fan, was charmed),
and Mr. Waffle’s sister’s family for dinner and an exciting chance to inspect their new house purchased last year.
It was all excellent though slightly exhausting. I was never happier to splurge on a taxi than when I had walked from Bloomsbury to the Tower of London. What was truly wonderful was having the London relatives on tap for advice on what to do and – possibly more importantly – where to eat near the various attractions. It was like having an expert guide with full knowledge of you and your family’s needs. In fact, actually, that was exactly what it was. It was the best trip I’ve had in a very long time (even pre-Covid). Still, I was possibly influenced by the fact that it was very, very nice to be abroad for the first time since summer 2019*.
I was a little unnerved when we got home and Michael said that it was good to be back somewhere the Russians were less likely to think of as a target. Does he not realise his sister is living in England? Oh the poor Ukrainians.
And in final it is over, surely it’s over, news, I’ve decided to take a bit of time off work. I am flattened. My mother died in June 2019, my father died in December 2020, work has been tough in the pandemic, herself has left home and her brothers will be finishing school next year and moving on to a new part of their lives. I feel a bit like it’s now or never. So I will be removing myself from the labour market from June 2022 until October 2023. I have no major plans, I will not be travelling the world or writing my novel. I might rejoin the tennis club; that’s about the height of it. Funnily enough one of my bookclub friends is also taking some time out. I am very conscious that I am lucky to be able to do this.
Let me know your own post pandemic plans.
*Updated to add: my sister points out that I was in the Netherlands last autumn. Mr. Waffle points out that we were also in England in the autumn. Oops.
Are We Back?
In a move which makes me seriously fear for my sanity and which reminds me of the slightly irregular hours my mother used to favour, I found myself cleaning the door of the oven at 2.30 in the morning. I saw a video about how you could take out the inner glass door and I realised that I could get rid of that streak on the oven door which has been bothering me since last summer. I dismantled the thing. I cleaned it. After several false starts and some dark muttering I reassembled it. I am extraordinarily pleased with myself. But also a bit concerned for my sanity.
In other sanity limiting news, I just can’t seem to let my brother get rid of my parents’ books. Not just special books but any books. Books they never read, books they didn’t like, paperback detectives, books inherited from my grandparents (Daily Mail almanac 1913 anyone?). I think I am going to have to give them house room. But where? To demonstrate the extent of my difficulties, these are the bookshelves in two of the bedrooms in my parents’ house.
Third row from the top there you can see the Cork Historical and Archaeological Society’s annual publication collected for years. Am I ever going to read these volumes? No, I am not. Am I going to let my brother throw them out? Are you joking me?
In other middle aged developments we thought we had fixed our drain problems through the application of rods lent by the neighbours (did you know drain rods were a thing, it explains where Dyno-rod got their odd name anyhow). This morning when Mr. Waffle and I were out at breakfast, Daniel texted the family group chat: “Why does the whole house smell of sewage?” Why indeed. As I cower in here writing this, Mr. Waffle is out in the back garden with the neighbour’s rods and a scented candle is working extra hard in the kitchen. I’m inclined to call in the professionals at this point – Dyno-rod perhaps? – but he seems very determined to give it another go. Cross your fingers for me and my house with a definite aroma of sewage (more drains than sewage to be fair but I appreciate it’s a point of detail).
We got our water cut off during the week (query could this have triggered our drain problem?) and the electric shower failed to revive. For two hideous days until a plumber could be got out to fix the issue (2 minutes of your time sir, €50 of our money) we showered in the temporary downstairs shower in the utility room. I cannot speak of the vileness involved in our efforts to maintain hygiene standards in a cruel world.
Daniel has a sore knee and went to the physio who has given him loads of exercises to do which I hear him dutifully performing in his bedroom. When I was a teenager, I had an old fashioned typewriter in my room. My father said that when I used it, it sounded like an elephant tap dancing on the ceiling. Daniel does not sound like an elephant tap dancing but he does sound like someone giving his all to the plank and various other unpleasant lunges and stretches. In other noises off news, Daniel has started calling Michael “Shuttle brother” because of his habit of flitting up and down to the bathroom on the return at bedtime. I find this quite hilarious though I cannot say why. I think you would have to hear the lightening footsteps of fleet of foot Michael at bedtime.
I took this photo the other morning as I was leaving for work. Everyone now living in the house had departed on a bicycle. Why are there still three in the shed? I mean, why?
And finally, the Government basically lifted all restrictions last night except for mask wearing inside until end February. So that’s it then? I really hope so. Meanwhile though my sister-in-law in London has Covid. Alas.
A Long Week in January
Daniel and Michael got their booster jab and, in an impressive example of bureaucratic efficiency, their Covid certs the next day. They were both pretty miserable after actually (not as sick as I gather they’d have been if they’d got Moderna but they got Pfizer happily). We should probably have kept them home from school the day after. One of Daniel’s school mates managed to spray him with a tube of yoghurt. He therefore spent the day without his school jumper freezing in the sub-zero temperatures caused by open windows (Covid related). This didn’t help his recovery and although Michael was fine the following day, Daniel spent the day in bed. They’re both better now. The school sent us home a gift bag containing a tea light holder whittled by the woodwork class and a water bottle and pen stamped with the school crest. I am somewhat baffled by this but perhaps they are building up school spirit?
We live in a terraced house and we always hear the television of our (slightly deaf) older neighbours through the wall. The other night it was very loud and Mr. Waffle mused, “I wonder what they’re watching in Screen 2?” It reminded me of when I was younger and you could hear what was going on in the cinema next door in the multiplex. I think this is now a thing of the past and we can only welcome progress in this regard.
HIghlight of my week was going to the cheese shop and buying some Brillat Savarin. Not the purchase (although it is very much my favourite cheese) but the man behind the counter saying to me “Vous êtes française?” Non, but I cannot thank you enough for asking.
The worst thing to happen this week was the seemingly random murder of a young woman. I have a lot of thoughts about this and maybe I’ll write about it another time. There was a picture of her family on the front of today’s paper and it is heart breaking. I can’t think about it without crying.
Small Island
Sample 1
You will recall that Michael and Daniel spent time on Bere Island over the summer, I’m sure. It’s a small island off the west coast of Cork. My sister’s partner’s parents have a house there. In conversation with a classmate, Michael discovered that his (the classmate’s) grandmother was from there and they owned the nearest house to my sister’s partner’s parents where the classmate went for Christmas. All three of them were there at the same time over the summer and it is almost unbelievable that they didn’t run into each other but they know for future reference and the classmate’s mother has told me that none of their outhouse doors are locked and the boys can help themselves to canoes etc if they are back again. If I’ve told you this before, I’m sorry but I have reached the age where I am allowed to repeat myself.
Sample 2
A retired colleague dropped in to the office before Christmas and a couple of us went for coffee.
Still working colleague: How are you getting on?
Retired colleague: Great, well, my health is good which is a great thing.
SWC: Yes, at our age that is a great thing. A friend of my husband’s was swimming in the sea in Kerry last summer and started to feel unwell. A man in the sea with him (a stranger to him) happened to be a GP. He asked the friend if he was ok. He said not. The GP brought him to shore where he collapsed.
RC: The exact same thing happened to me when I was in Kerry with friends over the summer. They are both doctors and this man collapsed who had been out swimming and they went to help. It was very dramatic, the air ambulance landed beside the beach and all the cows ran to one corner of the field.
SWC: And this man had to be airlifted to Cork where he was treated for a brain bleed.
RC: He was airlifted to Cork but we never heard what happened.
Yes, yes, it was the same man, same beach and, you will be delighted to hear that, although it was touch and go for a while, the man has made a complete recovery and just had an appointment with his doctor the other day who said he was fine. Retired colleague said his doctor friends had been wondering what happened and now he would be able to tell them the good news.
The Mother of All Sundays
I’m back to work tomorrow after what feels like a very long break. Am I looking forward to it? I am not.
Covid
Over the past week, Mr. Waffle and I have sampled a range of Dublin eateries for breakfast/brunch, which has been hugely enjoyable. However, if I get Covid, it will definitely be from the Elephant and Castle in Temple Bar. It’s not that they weren’t observing all of the requirements but it was the fullest place we’ve been in months.
So, I do not currently have Covid. However, Covid is rampant here. My brother-in-law and his wife have it – baffled as to where they could have got it. My brother is at home self-isolating as a close contact of some randomer in Spain (regular readers will recall that he was in Tenerife for Christmas). I am a bit amazed that the systems talk to each other and impressed. He’s not delighted.
I went to visit my mother’s friend from college whose husband died in August. Two of her sons live abroad with their families and couldn’t easily come home due to Covid. She and her son who lives at home had been going to host her other Dublin based son and his wife and children for Christmas Day. However, you guessed it, the son, his wife and children all came down with Covid so it was just my mother’s friend and her son who lives at home for Christmas Day. He had a really bad reaction to his Moderna booster and spent Christmas evening throwing up so it was not exactly a peaceful and joyful day as hoped.
My friend who lives in America came home with her husband and four children. There was a problem with two of the children’s passports and her husband had to stay behind with them to sort with the American embassy while my friend went home with the younger children. This is not exactly a Covid story but, of course, everything was made much more complex by having to source a Covid test (when the public system had basically given up putting additional stress on private testing) after they had solved their passport difficulties.
Culture
We went on a number of cutural outings. Somewhat satisfactory. There was an exhibition in Dublin castle on photography in Ireland from 1839. Look, ok, it was put on by the photography bit of the National Library but a bit more on the subjects of the photographs as well as full details on the photographers and their techniques wouldn’t have been any harm.
As a Trinity graduate, Mr. Waffle can get in to the Book of Kells free and bring a couple of guests. This is a genuine graduate perk, I have to concede. When he and I visited we were told that now you have to book in advance to get the graduate perk. “Will we just go in anyway?” I said to Mr. Waffle. “How much is it?” I asked the woman on security. €18 a head! We did not just go in anyway.
In other cultural excitements, I decided to go to the annual Turner exhibition in the National Gallery but there was a big queue so I was put off. Instead, I decided I would finally cash in the gallery membership I got last Christmas (2020 – I was waiting for Covid to be over so I could get full value for my annual membership, I’m tired of waiting) and go into the (cost-free to members) Jack Yeats exhibition. Was there anyone in the whole gallery who could assist me in redeeming my membership? There was not. Apparently I can ring any morning. Well, that’s helpful. A job for next week. I had a wander around the free stuff but my absence of membership gnawed at my frugal bargain-loving soul and I couldn’t enjoy it properly thinking I ought to be in the Jack Yeats exhibition for free.
Great Outdoors
We went on a couple of successful walks. Out to Howth Head early on Wednesday morning with Daniel and Michael. When Daniel saw the Summit car park he said, “Oh God not here.” This was not exactly propitious but it was a beautiful day and we had the walk largely to ourselves and, I think, despite himself, he didn’t hate it. We had lunch in Howth and were home by early afternoon filled with inner smugness (in fairness, that was probably just me).
On Wednesday night, we had a farewell dinner. I went all out on the Christmas ware which none of the menfolk appreciate at all. Their loss but it was nice to have herself defending it, even if it does make the cupboards a bit full for December (conceded).
Thursday was Women’s Christmas. The Wise Men completed their epic journey from the far side of the hand sanitiser on the hall table.
The boys went back to school. Herself went back to England. We drove her to the airport. “Did you see my whatsapp message about how hilarious it is to google “askew”?” I asked. “Yes,” she said tartly, “but I knew about it already because I have been on the internet since 2007.” Notwithstanding her very recent reminder of how keeping your parents young can be a brutal process, I was so gutted to see her go. It’s just really sad seeing a child off at the airport and I know it’s great that she’s having such a good time and loving it and the alternative would be much worse but I am heart broken. Seeing the light flooding into her bedroom every morning because the curtains are open gives me a pang and reminds me that she’s gone, probably for good. For the very first time, I am wondering what it was like for my mother when I moved abroad at 23 – and basically was gone forever. In fairness, herself is only 18 which seems so young notwithstanding her extraordinary competence at managing everything. I completely forgot to slip her any money at the airport which was something my mother did for me without fail. Happily her father remembered and had cash to hand so that she could sustain herself on her epic trek.
Mr. Waffle and I drove away from the airport in lashing rain. I had decided to go for a walk in Carlingford to cheer us up but as we drove there in the downpour I did wonder about the wisdom of that. Miraculously the weather cleared as we arrived and stayed fine while we had our walk.
Then it started to lash again. We went off to a nice lunch spot which we had found on our recon mission during the summer. A pretty successful day out.
When we returned to Dublin, the boys debriefed us on school. They said it was largely empty as half the children and many of the teachers were out with Covid or were close contacts of Covid sufferers. God, I really hope they don’t close the schools.
Change and Decay etc.
On Friday morning, Mr. Waffle and I went to a friend’s father’s funeral. It’s the biggest funeral I’ve been to since Covid. The back doors of the church were left open (Covid, I assume) and the sleet blew straight in and down the back of my neck between my scarf and collar no matter how tightly I wound my scarf. I have never been so cold at a funeral mass. They must have been perished at the graveyard afterwards although it can’t have been a great deal colder than the back of the church. The mass was lovely, if chilly. A relative was an organist and they had pieces from Fauré’s requiem. An outstanding funeral music performance (although a friend did tell me about a funeral he went to where they had a choir and string quartet – which I’m sure was excellent – upping the ante even in death). The speeches (several) were very good, particularly a granddaughter who gave a real feel for what the dead man had been like to her and her cousins (lovely, obviously). I ran into a friend – it turned out she was there in her professional capacity as president of an important national body where the dead man had been advisor to the finance committee. I tell you what, it’s weird to be part of the middle aged, middle class establishment. Where have all the grown ups gone? Dead and buried apparently.
We went home and Mr. Waffle worked for the afternoon and the boys and I took down all the Christmas decorations. What a melancholy end to the holidays. January is going to be grim, I fear, but I’ve decided we will all – Covid permitting – visit herself in England during mid-term in February. She and her brothers are, if not delighted, at least resigned.
How’s your January going?
