belgianwaffle

Twins

Alas


Posted in: Cork, Dublin, Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

Things are not going well. On Wednesday my 94 year old father fell at home. There was no one else in the house. He inadvertently turned off his mobile phone in the excitement so it was about an hour before my brother came home and found him. He seemed alright. The next day, Thursday, he got up and then he got stuck in the shower. His GP came round (now retired, old buddy of my Dad’s though much younger and has basically, as far as I can see, kept my father as his sole patient to tend to his needs) and said he suspected a broken pelvis and sent him off to the hospital by ambulance.

My brother went in with him. He enjoyed the usual on a trolley experience in A&E. I spoke to my father on his mobile phone. He was taken off for x-ray. My brother went home. I considered getting to Cork for the weekend once Mr. Waffle got back from Luxembourg where he had gone for work on Wednesday. The hospital went into lock down because they had a Corona virus case. My father’s mobile phone ran out of charge. That evening I rushed home, fed the boys and then drove for miles to collect herself from her friend’s school where he had been acting in the school play. Something by Harold Pinter. Honestly, notions. She quite enjoyed it, thanks for asking. Possibly the last outing before Corona virus shuts down all the schools.

On Friday morning, I woke up with a sore neck. I was stuck in the pose of a tortoise with neck jutting out of its shell. I have been here before. I limped around the house in agony and unable to bend. Herself said she was a bit snuffly and asked, hopefully, should she stay home as a friend of a friend living about 50 kms away had Corona virus. I sent her in. I limped in to work (unable to cycle, obviously). I sneezed on the tram and everyone around moved away in a marked manner. Good tip for anyone who would like a bit more space on public transport. At work, in a disturbing development, the only position in which I felt comfortable was hunched over my keyboard typing.

My sister spent Friday trying to get updates on my father. He spent the day phone free, visitor free in A&E on a trolley while the hospital dealt with its Corona virus problem by sending 60 staff into self-isolation, which is not great if you’re 94 or, indeed, any age.

Meanwhile, on Friday night herself was in her short film which was being screened as part of the Dublin film festival. Her father was only getting home from Luxembourg at 8.30 and could not attend, her aunt was supposed to come from Cork but was stuck in Cork on high alert for my father, her brothers were supposed to come but a friend of theirs from school was organising pizza and a film for another friend of theirs who is having chemotherapy and has stopped school for a bit (chemo, Corona virus, bit of both?) and they wanted to go, so I felt that they should and they could see the film another time. Her cousin and aunt from Dublin were coming. As we arrived at the cinema, her Dublin aunt texted that they were stuck in traffic. I sent herself scampering off to sit with her friends and sat near the front as I had forgotten my glasses (look, I had a lot on). I quite enjoyed the short film as it featured my first born and many of her friends. I enjoyed most of the other shorts screened as well. Aunt and cousin arrived but I did not see them, alas, as they arrived a bit late and had to leave early.

We had originally planned to have pizza as a big group after the screening but circumstances beyond everyone’s control meant that there were just a pair of us – myself and herself. But it’s an ill wind and it meant that we were able to drive out to the airport and collect her father rather than leave. My sister texted to say that the hospital had finally managed to get my father on to a ward 36 hours after being admitted with (it transpired) crushed vertebrae rather than a broken pelvis (a good news story, basically). Later I picked the boys up after their evening out. Did they have fun? They did. Did they have any trouble finding their friend’s house in the dark (they had to go alone on foot as I was at the film)? One did and one did not. Was there any reason why they would chose to travel separately through the mean streets in the dark given that they were going to the same place? Nobody told them they were to travel together. Was it not obvious? It was not. Anyway, in small world stories, Daniel (who was the one who got lost) ran into a friend from his GAA team who was out walking with his father. The father knew Dan’s friend’s father because they had gone to the same school and grown up on the same road and was able to escort Daniel safely to his destination. Big city, small community.

There was a bit of consternation on Friday as the nurse said to my sister that my father was cognitively impaired. He wasn’t when he went in on Thursday. However, I managed to talk to a nurse this afternoon (Saturday) who was pretty helpful and said that he had had a free and frank exchange of views with his consultant that morning about his medication and that he was perusing the papers my sister had delivered to the hospital and which had wended their way to his room. The nurse charged his phone for him and he called me about an hour ago. Mostly to say that he needed my sister to call him so that he could instruct her to bring various things in to the hospital for him; partly to check whether my brother had got off on his skiing holiday (he had with some misgivings); and partly to complain loudly about the quality of nursing care compared to in his day (which I’m sure was gratefully noted by the overworked staff on the premises). So cognitively he seems fine, if grumpy. Apparently, they are discharging people, Corona virus or no, so I am hopeful he might be able to move to some kind of step down facility early next week.

Meanwhile next Saturday, we are supposed to go skiing en famille ourselves. I appreciate that this is a bit #mymiddleclasshell but between my poor father possibly at death’s door (though things have improved on that front over the past 24 hours); my tortoise like posture and general misery; Corona virus diverse alarms; and a number of logistical difficulties on the accommodation front (we are in a chalet with friends of friends and there have been some unfortunate miscommunications including my brother being in and then out again, he is currently out but has found somewhere else to stay – he’s going for a week with friends this week and family next, isn’t it well for him?), I can’t say I’m looking forward to it as much as I was when we booked it last autumn.

Finally, finally in my litany of complaint and woe, regular readers will remember that I am in the church baptism group. The parish priest has taken it upon himself to have a display in the church on what each church group does. Our group was not enthused; we all have jobs to hold down and plenty to do otherwise. But one of our number organised us all to do pictures. I paid herself good money to paint two of the six symbols of baptism for me and Michael kindly dropped them around to the woman up the road who is on half a dozen church committees and undertook to drop them into the parish office. I couldn’t help to put them up in the church as I was collecting herself from her Pinter play on the other side of the city on display night but surely now our work was done. Not a bit of it, next up, we each had to lead the Stations of the Cross on different dates. I felt myself both theologically and practically unable to do so and said so. Surely this was the end of it? No, this morning a message arrives saying each of us had to turn up at a different mass over the next week and show off the stand. I am not pleased. With all the other things going on, this Greek chorus of pings from the baptism Whatsapp group was not what I needed. I am, frankly, peeved. This could yet tip me over the edge into godlessness. Herself would be delighted as I’ve told her she has to keep going to mass until she’s 18 and she is exploring all avenues for an earlier exit.

Anyone else got any news or have I absorbed it all?

A Low Point


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

It’s been stormy. Our recycling bin blew over and the contents got wet. “Did you put them in the black bin?” I asked Mr. Waffle. “That would have been a terrible waste,” said he. Then he added, defiantly, “I dried them out by spreading them over the Aga.” I was not pleased. Was it for this that I spent my children’s inheritance?

The weather has been quite awful all month. Michael and Daniel spent much of their mid-term break holed up in the house (herself has an elaborate series of ongoing social engagements which mean she touches down in our sphere but rarely) so today Mr. Waffle and I forced them out for a walk on the pier in Dun Laoghaire after visiting his mother. They were very good despite the fact that it hailed on us. Good God in heaven.

Untitled

I suppose snow is next.

Out and About


Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Reading etc., Twins, Youngest Child

The Alliance Française had a games night and, even though it was a school night, I insisted on bringing the boys and Mr. Waffle. I felt that the boys might enjoy it and that it would be good for their French. In my mind’s eye, I saw them sitting down and bonding with another group of board game-loving teenagers, ideally Francophone board game-loving teenagers, and having a great time while myself and Mr. Waffle went off Bewley’s and had a nice cup of tea. This did not happen. They did not enjoy it, it was not good for their French. It was all grown-ups who came with their own gangs of friends. There were no other teenagers. What was agonising for Michael, in particular, was that these were his people playing his kind of games but with no room for him. We sat in a corner, the four of us and tried to muster enthusiasm for playing in French games which we could equally readily have played at home and despite the enthusiasm and helpfulness of the librarian doling out games, it could not really be called anything but an abysmal failure. Alas.

We went to see Knives Out in the cinema and, unlike everyone else in Ireland, I thought it was only alright. The others enjoyed it though. We also went to see JoJo Rabbit which I enjoyed in a mild way but found myself distracted by the woman in the row in front who kept her phone on throughout: messaging, whatsapping, posting to instagram. It was spectacularly annoying but I was too craven to tap her on the shoulder and say something in case she was cross with me and I had to sit behind her for the rest of the film which would ruin it for me. So I sat there stewing in bitterness.

Herself bought us theatre tickets for Christmas which was a bit over-generous given her very limited budget, poor mite, but anyway they were for Drama at Inish at the Abbey which I found surprisingly enjoyable. I had thought it was going to be something like The Playboy of the Western World or the Beauty Queen of Leenane – all a bit West of Ireland gloom – but it’s not. It’s by Lennox Robinson (who was from Douglas in Cork, I mean, who knew?). It was written in the 30s and it’s about a group of actors who go to a seaside resort in East Cork (clearly Youghal) and put on works by Chekhov, Ibsen and Strindberg. The residents take the plays to heart and start acting like characters in the plays. I feel I would have got more out of it had I been a bit more familiar with the source material but still not bad at all. Annoyingly, the man in the row behind me seemed to find it knee-slappingly funny and I felt a bit short-changed when I considered his hilarity compared to my mild amusement but there you go. Inevitably, at the end there was a standing ovation. I can’t remember the last time I went to a play in Dublin when there hasn’t been a standing ovation. I feel it’s a slightly devalued currency at this stage.

Mr. Waffle and I were invited to a Burns night supper by friends. His mother was Scottish so I suppose this was why they got into this in the first place. It was in the Royal Saint George yacht club in Dun Laoghaire organised by the Dublin Scottish Benevolent Society of St. Andrew. In advance we regarded it with some trepidation as we both had head colds but we were sufficiently recovered on the night to have a good time. The Burns night supper was completely unknown to me as a thing in advance and I had never tasted haggis in my life. My friend helpfully described it as being a bit like a wedding with speeches after dinner and some singing. An early highlight was the “Ode to a Haggis” which was delivered with great verve. Also, I found that I really like haggis – it’s delicious. The speeches, I understand, follow an unwavering pattern with a speech on Robert Burns “The Immortal Memory”; “A Toast to the Lassies” and “A Toast to the Laddies”. I found myself sitting right in front of the speakers which was fine until the singer sang one of Burns’s numbers (A Man’s a Man for A’That) unaccompanied and very loudly, eyes closed, face puce and about two feet from me. It was a little overwhelming. He sang a couple of later numbers accompanying himself on the guitar and I found these less stressful. We toasted the President and the Queen of England. I don’t remember doing the latter before in this jurisdiction. Since the yacht club still has the Union Jack engraved in the top of its gilt edged mirror it all felt a little odd. But Dun Laoghaire is a bit odd that way.

The speech on Burns was fine – continuing the Abbey Theatre theme it was delivered by one of co-directors of the Abbey, a Scot, Graham McLaren. I wonder how much he is enjoying that role as the Abbey always seems to have a couple of controversies on the boil. Anyway, to Burns, I have to say, I knew he was an important Scottish poet but hadn’t quite realised his role in the Scottish national psyche (I should have guessed from earlier when Mr. Waffle showed me a picture from a Scottish friend of his who is married to an Austrian – it showed her slightly grumpy, Austrian teenage son, decked out in his kilt for Burns night in Vienna). The “Immortal Toast” man gave lots of Robert Burns and his influence on me and Scotland stories.

The highlight of the toast to the lassies was a rather drunken heckler sitting at the table behind me who roared at the speaker that it was “RAbbie Burns, not RObbie Burns!” There was some communal singing which I enjoyed very much and which felt oddly like mass. And we sang “Auld Lang Syne”.

Our friends who invited us are members of the organising society and they were allowed to bring up to four people. In advance they explained that we would be joined by four other people at our table of ten. Our friends said that last year they had worried about what old fogies they might be put beside only to find themselves beside four people in their 20s and realising that they were the old fogies.

There were quite a few people there whom I knew from other contexts including a good friend of mine (who is also, coincidentally a colleague of our host, yes, Ireland is tiny and we all know each other) who was there with her Scottish husband (appropriately attired in kilt) and who was actually put at our table but tragically between our group of 6 and her and her husband there was a couple (lovely people I am sure etc.) unknown to any of us so that was a little unfortunate.

Overall though, a rather thrilling and exciting new experience to have at my vast age. Recommended.

Untitled

Matters Mouth Related


Posted in: Hodge, Middle Child, Princess, Twins, Youngest Child

The cat somehow managed to hurt her nose. She may have got into a fight. Unclear. Mr. Waffle took her to the vet (which she did not enjoy) and the vet pronounced her to be basically fine and we should just wait and let her get better. €60 we will never see again. Sigh. Anyhow to skip to the finish, she did recover, but in the intervening fortnight she was unable to lick herself clean. Who knew a cat could become so revoltingly smelly. That licking behind the ears regime is startlingly effective.

Meanwhile, herself had another appointment with the medieval torturer who is passing himself off as an orthodontist. Honestly, if I had known at the start how much prolonged misery it would involve, I would never have started. I mean all she had was one little snaggle tooth (as our American cousins say) and it was actually quite cute and characterful. The orthodontist has now applied those dreadful elastic bands which are attached by hooks on the inside of her mouth. The pain, the poor child. She told me that the dental nurse said to her that she couldn’t go until she had put on the bands herself. It took her about 2 attempts. The dental nurse sighed and said, “It’s always the same, girls can do it straight away but boys take about 14 tries.” She speculated that it might be because girls look at themselves in the mirror more. It’s possible, I suppose. When she returned home, bloody, battered and elasticated, her brothers’ words of comfort were uncomforting. Daniel offered, “Now there is no food that you can’t readily turn into a catapult.” Michael said, “Isn’t it a good thing that I have perfect teeth?”

And in final tooth news, Daniel’s front tooth was declared dead by the dentist and he had his root canal treatment (€450 but cheap compared to the braces). Daniel said the procedure wasn’t too bad and he was quite cheerful during and after even though he had to lie there for a good hour with his mouth open. I took him for a bun afterwards and he ate it up with every appearance of enthusiasm.

Untitled

He then took himself off to GAA training that evening without a bother. All in all it appears to have been far less painful than his sister’s brace tightening which is something, I suppose. I have to go to the dentist for my regular check up next month. I’m not sure I can face any more mouth related trauma, so let’s hope it passes off peacefully.

Christmas Round Up


Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

Daniel read at the carol service on the Friday evening before Christmas and he was absolutely fantastic. I was very proud of him. Mr. Waffle tends to regard our children’s successes and failures as their own but I regard everything as a reflection on me and I basked vicariously in his glory. The carols were nice too.

On Sunday we had our Christmas drinks party. Every year I am in the horrors in prospect and then quite pleased with it when in progress and delighted with myself afterwards. This year was no different. We had a moment of suprise when Daniel said, as I stood poised with a toothpick over a cocktail sausage, “I think those are the ones Michael puts in his mouth.” “And puts back in the box?” I asked in horror. Apparently so. Anyhow we had an unopened packet and we spoke to Michael about toothpicks being a single use item so a win overall.

On December 23, I queued outside Sheridan’s cheesemongers in town for 20 minutes. It was a small price to pay as my sister-in-law was making Christmas dinner but I think we can take it as a sign that the Dublin economy is still doing just fine.

It was a busy couple of days. For all of us, apparently.

Untitled

On Christmas Eve, the children and I met and an old friend of mine and his children. We’ve been doing this for about 10 years now so that makes it a festive tradition, I suppose. I found old pictures of when the children were smaller and he and I were quite nostalgic. My children were politely indifferent.

When we got home, Mr. Waffle told us that the toilet seat upstairs had broken. I thought it a bit unlikely that he would succeed on his hunt for a replacement on Christmas Eve but I underestimated him. A Christmas miracle.

We went to midnight mass (starts at 9, over by 10.30) and so we had a pretty relaxed Christmas morning with no one up before 9.

Untitled

Christmas presents this year were pretty successful overall. I rolled over Mr. Waffle’s subscription to the Economist and did not get him a copy of “Surveillance Capitalism” about which I had given strong hints and which filled him with fear because all he really wanted was the new Ross O’Carroll Kelly book which I dutifully delivered.

As we were going out to dinner herself did us all an amazingly elaborate Christmas breakfast which we all enjoyed though she was slightly frazzled. Christmas lunch with the cousins was very good and entirely labour free although Mr. Waffle and I felt a bit guilty; we’ll have them around for dinner in the new year.

Mr. Waffle and the children refused to go orienteering on St. Stephen’s Day but we did go for a walk so there was that. I was not as pleased by the situation as this picture might lead you to believe but my children were an absolute delight.

Untitled

We did very little on the 27th and headed down to Cork on the 28th. We decided to have lunch in Milano’s in town when we got to Cork before pushing on to grace the relatives with our presence. I was ill-prepared for parking in town. I decided I would test out the city council’s park by phone service, it is not effective. I am €10 poorer and I still had to scoot off to buy parking discs – I met two traffic wardens and they told me that the park by phone service was down; where I might buy discs and that they would not clamp my car while I was gone. This is perhaps not fascinating but I had to get it off my chest. It ended up costing me €20 for an hour’s parking.

Nonetheless we went on to my parents’ house in reasonably good order. My sister and brother always get very extravagant presents for the children (and indeed me) and this year the children, yet again, cleaned up.

I gave my father a new cap – sorely needed – and it may have been my most successful present of the year. He wore it to mass on Sunday and we both thought it looked pretty good. He was chirpy on Sunday and as he and I drove back from mass together (leaving the others to toil on foot) we reprised together some of the more popular carols performed by the choir.

My brother, the boys and I went ice skating together which was moderately successful. We went to Kinsale for a walk with my sister. As I said cheerfully to my little group as I ushered them in to the car, “It’s not actually raining.” The children dutifully posed for the now traditional “caution children” shot.

Untitled

After an hour or so patiently waiting outside in the damp, we finally got our lunch in the Bulman. While we were queuing, my sister’s friend came with her husband, her five year old, her brother and her 83 year old father. We chatted. Mr. Waffle suggested that we should give them our place in the queue. The rest of us were heartless. He is a better person than us but we were hungrier than him. Happily we were all seated at more or less the same time so the terrible ethical dilemma did not arise. Then we went on to Charles Fort which, alas, was closed. Curse you, OPW.

Untitled

My sister and I went for a wander around the craft shops of the town and Mr. Waffle and the children went home (having driven to Kinsale in two cars which was handy if not ecologically sound). By the time I got back to Cork that evening, I was starting to feel ill. I was sick as a dog last night and was not wellfor our drive back to Dublin this morning but here I am in the comfort of my own home with as much lemsip at my disposal as I may need to see in the new year.

A very happy new year to you all and hope Christmas went well for you too.