Youngest Child

54

9 March, 2023
Posted in: Cork, Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Reading etc., Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

I was in Cork during the week with my bike. God, it absolutely lashed, it also snowed and hailed. And it was uncharacteristically chilly. I had kind of forgotten the intensity of Cork rain, cosseted as I am in Dublin where it never rains much. My rain gear which is fine in Dublin proved inadequate for Cork. I was out and about a bit so it was put under some strain. Inter alia, I went to see Reggie in the Everyman – funny in places but pretty site specific as they say, can’t see it travelling outside Cork – Reggie was in Elec Eng the year ahead of me in college and I’d say that he has more lucrative ways to make a buck so he must really love it. He was a brilliant debater in college and the best bits of the show are when he interacts with the audience, he’s very fast on his feet. Something about his accent and some of his expressions really remind me of the Cork of my youth and my parents’ friends so I have a bit of a soft spot for him.

The purpose of my visit was to keep an eye on my aunt as my sister was away. To be honest she seemed pretty well minded without me and I was quite impressed by the trail of people in and out every day which my sister masterminds from her fastness next door. Still, my aunt was very glad to see me which was pleasing.

I found a box of my mother’s old papers from before she was married. There were loads of old letters and her diary from the year she spent in England. I had a quick look through it pending a more thorough perusal in due course and many days are marked in capital letters NO POST. My poor mother. That said, the box is full of letters sent to her in England so there must have been some post.

I came back on the train on Thursday. My rain gear completely gave up the ghost on the cycle to the station. My boots (still drying as I type) were super saturated as were my socks. My rain jacket and trousers leaked at cuffs, joints and hems soaking through all the layers I was wearing. I was, foolishly, not wearing waterproof gloves but my nice Paula Rowan ones that Mr. Waffle bought me one Christmas. I literally had to wring them out in the station. They will never be the same again. I was frozen and damp on the train home. Sigh. Don’t give me this “There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing” guff.

I derived mild pleasure from sending my brother this picture from the train showing snow in Tipperary as he is in Morzine next week and rain is forecast. Rain!

I arrived home safely in time for my birthday celebrations. Mr. Waffle had made superhuman efforts as had all of the children. I got messages from all and sundry (why would you keep your birthday a secret? why?) and lovely flowers from a former colleague as well as great presents from Mr. Waffle, the children and my siblings. A triumph overall.

Sadly Mr. Waffle was up to his tonsils at work and couldn’t take the day off. It was snowy but bright and sunny (Dublin weather) so I went to the park and took some pictures for myself. Sadly, I also got a puncture but into every birthday some rain must fall (though not, generally, in Dublin).

We were invited to dinner at my oldest friend’s house. I have known her since I was born (our parents were friends). On the way over to her house I explained to Mr. Waffle how this was an important time as until April 20 (her birthday) we were the same age and she could no longer tell me what to do. Mr. Waffle said, “I think that was understandable when you were children but it’s a bit weird that you are still talking about it now.” I was extremely pleased that her birthday card adverted to this very fact.

I must say being 54 is not at all as I anticipated when I was 24. I am beginning to realise that everyone is still 24 on the inside.

Up, Up and Away

6 March, 2023
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

Mr. Waffle and I were in Northern Ireland for the weekend and we had an excellent time. I had already drafted an exciting post on this which wordpress in its wisdom made disappear completely. If my tone is less effusive than you might expect then attribute it to this very annoying technical glitch. On the other hand there was someone (Evelyn Waugh? Henry James?) who used to improve his writing by tearing up his first draft and throwing it in the bin and then re-writing from scratch. I suppose I can only be grateful to wordpress for giving me the opportunity to test this myself. However, if the post turns up again (as they sometimes do – technology, a mystery), I will be incandescent.

Friday, March 3

We left after lunch leaving the guys home alone for the first time ever. You might say that they are 17 but we felt quite daring. As we were leaving, Dan was going into town to meet a friend and Michael was disporting himself home alone. The journey up was quite short and uneventful. We stopped for a cup of tea in Hillsborough which was about 15 minutes from our destination. There continues to be a significant dearth of nice places to get a cup of tea at 4 in the afternoon, North and South. Sadly, Hillsborough is no exception to this general rule though a pretty little spot. I always find it slightly strange to see school children in Northern Ireland. Whereas school uniforms in the South are now mostly slightly vile nylon tracksuity things, the school blazer is very much alive and well in the North and in Hillsborough I saw boys in short pants which, honestly, I thought had disappeared in the 60s.

The place we were staying – which I would truly recommend – was delightful. It’s a bit in the middle of nowhere but everywhere is pretty close in Northern Ireland, so I wouldn’t let that put you off. It’s a country house and the owner does the cooking himself. The food was really superb and the place was lovely. We had booked in for two dinners which I had had some reservations about but I needn’t have worried. Breakfast was amazing also. The place was full of Dubliners cackling with glee at the great value they had unearthed. It compares extremely favourably with the South and, honestly, the food was as good as I’ve had anywhere.

Dinner was not, however, the unmitigated delight we had expected. Michael was home alone at 9, no sign of Dan and Michael was waiting for him to order pizza. I immediately began to picture him dead on the roads (default mode) but honestly he had met his friend at 2, why wasn’t he home by 9? In fact, he had been home and gone out again. I had completely forgotten that he had GAA training later and that was where he was. Everyone was a bit grumpy on the home front.

Saturday, March 4

We were up with the lark. After a very hefty and delicious breakfast, we took ourselves to Carrickfergus where we inspected the impressive Norman castle. It’s, I think, the best preserved Norman castle in Ireland and has a dramatic setting right on the sea.

We went for the guided tour. It was not great, I honestly didn’t know a lot more about the history of the castle after than before. There was a bit of generic stuff about how people lived in a castle in the middle ages but nothing more really. I am not one to praise the OPW (which inter alia manages national monuments in the South) unneccesarily, however, their guides are truly excellent. There seems to be a culture of local experts taking on the roles as seasonal jobs and they know the history of the monuments inside out and you always get the sense when you ask them a question that in giving the tour you are only skimming the surface of their detailed knowledge. This is not the case for Carrickfergus. It would probably have been grand for a school group or if there were kids on the tour, in fairness. But as the only people on the tour were four grown-up southerners standing freezing in the keep, I thought it wasn’t optimal.

Mr. Waffle has a colleague who is married to someone from Carrickfergus and he asked him for lunch tips but the bleak reply came back, “There is nowhere.” Slightly disheartening.

We pushed on to the Gobbins cliff walk which I booked ages ago. I don’t want to diss the Gobbins but it is a bit “health and safety gone mad”. It is a walk along the cliffs which you might easily do unaccompanied in about an hour. We were fitted with helmets, told not to bring rucksacks, only allowed to go out in walking boots and ushered very slowly along the walk. In fairness the guide was good and there was one exciting tunnel but it felt like complete overkill. It was designed by a railway engineer in 1902 as a tourist attraction and the shop is full of pictures of Edwardian ladies in long skirts trotting happily along the path (not wearing hiking shoes or helmets – although I think the helmets are to deal with frequent rock falls so, maybe a good idea). I had thought it was bolted on to the cliffs and there are bits where that is the case but mostly it’s just along the side of the cliffs. I mean absolutely fine but did it need 3 hours? That’s a firm no. In fairness, the slightly dawdling pace might have been better if it had been a bit less chilly.

I suggested that we stop in Carrickfergus on the way back so that I could buy socks (packing catastrophe). We drove into the centre of town but everything seemed to be closed at 4.40 on a Saturday which seemed extraordinary. We parked back in the harbour and began explorations on foot. There was an absolutely enormous Tesco but I have rarely met an approach quite so pedestrian hostile. I was genuinely unnerved by the murals on the way. I have spent quite a bit of time in Northern Ireland but I have never before felt nervous or unwelcome but I could not in all conscience recommend Carrickfergus which is a real shame. The castle is superb and the town itself could be lovely – some great buildings, a pedestrianised centre and only 10 miles from Belfast but the atmosphere is very unnerving. I must say the planning genius who put the main road between the town and the sea front didn’t help matters either. We pushed on back to lovely Moira which is definitely where we should have gone to buy socks. When we told our hosts about our trip, they all said variants of “Carrickfergus, Carrickfergus, you idiot Southerners, thank God you made it out alive.” It was more coded than that, “Oh Carrickfergus, that is a very…strange place.”

Anyway, dinner was again, a triumph but also yet again, slightly plagued by difficulties on the domestic front.

You will be pleased to hear that the house did not go up in flames though the soft fwump from inside the Aga gave everyone pause.

Sunday, March 5

Another superb breakfast and we waddled to the car and headed home. We stopped off in Strandfield outside Carlingford for lunch on the way home (recommended). I bought yet more flowers to supplement my very inadequate home grown spring flower showing. I said to Mr. Waffle, “I think I know what I would do differently next time we go up North”. “Well, we’d better get a move on to sort it out before it’s too late, we’re already so old that we are spending our Sunday afternoons in the garden centre,” he said gloomily. My garden centre attendance was definitely taken out of context but yet.

For your information, here is our “before” pots picture:

And now look!

I trust your own weekend was satisfactory.

Updated to add: filled with rage as former draft of this post has reappeared in my drafts looking like butter wouldnâ€™t melt in its mouth. If youâ€™re curious, yes, this version is better.

I Gambled and Won

2 March, 2023
Posted in: Mr. Waffle, Siblings, Travel, Twins, Youngest Child

My brother invited me out to visit him in Annecy. After some humming and hawing I decided to go – my main concern was whether his flat would be habitable by someone with my high standards.

Thursday, 16 February

My v saintly husband drove me to the airport at 5 in the morning and I flew into Geneva at the crack of dawn (OK about 10 local time).

I had decided to spend the day in Geneva. I have been to Geneva before for work but never really explored it as a tourist. When I arrived in the city, it struck me how clean the air seemed. No wonder they sent invalids to Swiss sanatoria.

The first thing I saw was the Jet d’Eau and I know that they’re very proud of it but I’m sorry Geneva, it is the world’s most boring city landmark.

I followed my guidebook to the centre of the old town. The weather was absolutely beautiful. I had my lunch outdoors on the square. I had tartiflette – getting into the spirit of my Alpine adventure – and I was delighted with myself.

The old town was almost entirely car free with many cyclists. Pleasing. It didn’t seem to be touristy at all really although there were many shops selling tourist tat near the station – perhaps a Thursday in February is not peak tourist time. The old town was reasonably quiet and I was able to walk in the footsteps of Calvin (very big man locally) pretty much on my own.

The cathedral is very plain in a manner that is quite strange if you’re used to Catholic churches. That’s the altar:

They had Calvin’s chair as well. Suitably plain.

They had a monument to the Dukes of Rohan as well which I really liked but all I could think was “the riders of Rohan going to the aid of Gondor”. Different family.

Overall, it was very plain but whoever decorated the side chapel – the chapel of the Maccabees – did not get the memo and that is quite the sight particularly after the main cathedral.

Calvin feels very present in Geneva.

So, mind you, does Jean Jacques Rousseau who also seems to be something of a local hero.

There were posters everywhere for local referenda. Michael says “I told you they operated by direct democracy voting on every issue and you didn’t believe me”. I believe him now.

I went to the musÃ©e des beaux arts which is a big building with a slightly eclectic collection. Some nice pictures. I enjoyed this one by Hoppner of Lady Stafford as Hebe.

And also this one by Rigaud of the snappily tilted Elisabeth Charlotte of Bavaria, Duchess of OrlÃ©ans and Princess of the Palatine. Wikipedia says that she “gained literary and historical importance primarily through preservation of her correspondence, which is of great cultural and historical value due to her sometimes very blunt descriptions of French court life”. I am not surprised.

In some ways this was probably the most interesting picture. It sets the biblical scene in Geneva and you can see all kinds of contemporary local colour in the background including soldiers, farmers and houses on stilts in the mud (some of the stilts are preserved in the city museum, honestly, not fascinating).

The museum had a couple of rooms which were transported from a castle or big house, alas I forget where (wainscotting, old furniture, you know the kind of thing). Outside these rooms, a young Indian woman was hovering. She approached me, “Do you speak English?” She asked whether I would mind going around the rooms with her as she was afraid to do so as they were very creepy and there was no one else around. I found it a bit odd but I was happy to oblige. She was from Delhi and had just arrived in Geneva to study. I said that my sister had lived in Delhi. She asked where I was from and then told me that her sister had been working as an actuary in Dublin for the past seven years. Small world and all that.

For the record, the rooms were not at all creepy but I am middle aged and clearly not as imaginative as she was.

I also took in the city museum. I always enjoy a city museum. The contents can be so…varied. This was my first guillotine.

I found the basket to catch the severed heads singularly unnerving. Maybe I am more imaginative than I thought.

There was a really excellent audio visual display where they projected old maps on to a relief on the floor showing how the city had grown. Possibly I have been influenced by nearly 22 years of marriage to my map loving husband.

Then I headed off to the bus station which was quite grim. There was a bus there from Kosovo (Pristina to Geneva direct). Imagine all that distance and you couldn’t even afford a cup of tea at the end of it (making assumptions about income levels in Kosovo but honestly I paid â‚¬4.50 for a cup of tea in a transport caf type place across the road from the station, dear for anyone for God’s sake).

The bus ride to Annecy (difficult to pronounce, I assure you) was uneventful other than my role as an interpreter between the bus driver and a young Japanese woman (he was keen to explain to her how to get a â‚¬10 refund and it was complicated).

It was about an hour to Annecy and Dan was waiting for me. His flat was actually very clean and comfortable. I was delighted. And, you know, relieved.

Friday, 17 February

My brother had taken the day off work and he drove us up to the 3 VallÃ©es. I’m only used to the kind of ski holiday where you stay in the resort so it was pretty weird to be driving up but Dan was really familiar with everything and dropped me at a ski hire place right beside the lift where I could also get a ski pass. It took about five minutes and was super handy. I was, honestly for the first time ever, very impressed by my brother’s organisational skills. Also the guy in the ski hire place had spent six months in Cork in 1993 and he gave me a 25% reduction and a free helmet for the day. What’s not to love?

I haven’t been skiing since 2019 and I was pretty nervous especially since I had hurt my knee. I haven’t been skiing with my brother in more than 20 years when I was much better than him but he’s been practicing in the interim and my limited prowess has lessened. He spent a season in Chamonix a couple of years ago skiing every day and he’s really good now (at least compared to me). I went very slowly down some blues and greens and he was super patient.

We had a lovely lunch up the mountain. He seriously suggested that we could get sandwiches from the Spar in the town and eat them in the gondola going up. The horror. He still has some things to learn. We had to queue a little bit to get in and people with reservations were slipping past including some famous English actor – unknown to me but the English man behind and Daniel were suitably impressed. Apparently he was in a number of shows none of which I had seen. Low levels of thrills, frankly. Which is not what could be said for the tartiflette which was, frankly, superior to the offering in Geneva. What? I was in the mountains.

Having had a pretty successful day until about 3, things started to go downhill (hah!) and much of the last run of the day I spent on my bottom. I didn’t injure myself as I was proceeding very slowly but it was icy and when I went over I was stuck like a beetle on my back (technically on my side). The skiing world chamionships were on and that must be why a woman labelled National Team of Haiti was around to come to my aid. I mean I don’t think she was on the team – more part of a supporting cast but I feel that as an Irish person I should be at least as good at skiing as someone from Haiti. Definitely, definitely not so.

Dan was an absolute hero nursing me down the slopes but I felt a bit foolish and disgruntled. I have never been a brilliant skier but I was fine on blue and green and could do a red on a good day but look at me now.

Saturday, 18 February

My sister was coming in via Chicago where she had been for work. My brother went off to the airport to collect her (I was very relaxed about getting the bus until I discovered that literally every other person who has visited him has got a lift, however, I was so pleased with him after the previous day that I couldn’t be annoyed).

I spent the morning exploring Annecy and reading the local paper. I read a horrendous story of some misfortunate skier who had an accident on the slopes and was being skied back to safety by someone pushing a stretcher. You know the kind of thing. Anyway as he was being taken down the mountain a skier (or possibly snowboarder) took out the guy pushing the stretcher and the stretcher went flying down the mountain where it was finally stopped by some trees but having started with a simple broken leg the skier had much more serious injuries after this. And obviously trussed up like a chicken there was absolutely nothing he could do in his stretcher to halt its breakneck progress. How singularly unfortunate was this guy? I mean did I feel lucky now? Oh yes I did.

Annecy is absolutely beautiful and quite charming. The bishop of Geneva hung out there when Calvinism was having its moment and it was the catholic counterweight to Calvinist Geneva. Be that as it may it doesn’t seem to have done the local churches much good when the revolution came and they were used as stables. Poor old Jeanne de Chantal was dug up.

The Alps are visible from many of the roads in the town. They provide a spectacular but, alas, increasingly unsnowy backdrop to the town.

The town has a river and a number of canals and like many another spot (Bruges, Ghent, Cork) calls itself the Venice of the North.

I was shocked (SHOCKED) to see this sign outside the Monoprix.

I had a bit of a wander around the shops. I am pleased to report that in Annecy they will let you speak French and will not insist on speaking English to you. The traditional quintessential Annecy thing is a child chimney sweep. In the mountains the population was poor and things were tough. Rather than having an extra mouth to feed in winter parents would send off children as young as six with what I think we would now call a gangmaster and have them sweep chimneys for the winter. As Mr. Waffle said, they seem surprisingly proud of their history of child labour. Actually, the enthusiasm seems to be dying out a bit and there were relatively few child chimney sweeps about.

I was extremely impressed by the tourist office where I went to pick up a map – truly excellent advice on what to do and where to eat. I couldn’t help comparing it with Rye in England (a beautiful place to visit but one where you have to pay for the tourist map of the town and the tourist office is underwhelming, public private partnership gone too far).

When my sister got in she was tired having flown from Chicago via Heathrow. My brother and I let her have a nap and went up to a small resort near the city – Semnoz – (just a couple of lifts and a pub really) for a drink and a look at the views. The views were spectacular but there is no doubt that snow was in short supply. It hadn’t snowed since mid-January and we had our drinks outside in a sea of mud (which in happier times would have been snow).

The sunset was spectacular but it is hard to do it justice with a photo.

I’m sure there will be snow again but the trend is not cheering. In the car we listened to an article about future proofing ski resorts. Apparently the 3 VallÃ©es can cover 65 square kilometres with artificial snow at the touch of a button but the smaller and lower resorts seem doomed. One of the people interviewed said that perhaps in 50 years people will come to the resort just to see snow as there won’t be any elsewhere. Honestly I did feel a bit that I was fiddling while Rome burned.

My sister having somewhat recovered from the rigours of her flight felt able to dine out so we did. Satisfactory.

Sunday, 19 February

We cycled around the lake, a distance of 38 kms. My longest ever cycle and it was amazing. Here is your intrepid reporter wearing the ski jacket that she bought for her first ski trip in 1990. Vintage. Honestly it must have been enormous when I bought it in Modena where I was studying at the time as it is still a little baggy.

It was almost all on segregated cycle paths and the views were superb.

We stopped for lunch in a delightful little town (the venue was recommended by the tourist office and the woman also recommended that we book – two excellent pieces of advice). It was quite lovely.

The chemist Berthollet is from there for those of you interested in chemists.

My sister still recovering from her trip found it a bit more trying than my brother and me but she had hired an electric bike so it was less exhausting for her. Although she was the only one in the group suffering from jet lag

Our afternoon stop was near the end but I became tense that we might not get the bikes back in time. In fact there was no need to worry. A truly excellent day and unlike my skiing day, at no point did I fall or feel like I might die amid a happy bunch of five year olds (this is who you ski with on the green slope) and better again I wasn’t at all stiff or sore afterwards. A strong contrast with my post ski experience.

Monday, 20 February

My sister was staying in a hotel in town having (probably correctly) deemed my brother’s flat too small for all of us. I walked into town and we met for breakfast and explored the joys of the bus station (much nicer than Geneva) from whence we would both be going back to the airport in due course.

She was still a bit under the weather so went back to bed. Meanwhile I had a nice lunch and a boat trip on the lake which I would highly recommend. I tried to tempt my sister out but she couldn’t face it as she had been extravagantly ill on her most recent boat trip. And although she conceded that the lake in Annecy was unlikely to present the same challenges as the ferry to Skellig Michael she was steadfast in refusing to go.

It was a shame because I think she might have liked it. It was interesting to see from the lake the places we had explored on shore the previous day on our cycle ride.

When I got back to land, my sister had been consulting guides and offered the glad tidings that the castle was open on Mondays. An extremely unlikely development designed to trap the unwary. We had an enjoyable poke around.

There were some nice paintings of the local area. It was a lot more snowy in the 1800s.

There was a chimney sweep. Naturally.

And a pleasing wooden statue of Saint Hubert (patron saint of hunters, in case you were wondering).

Tuesday, 21 February

The three of us met for breakfast and then my sister took the bus back to Geneva (the only other guest my brother has had to explore the joy of the bus).

My brother and I drove up to a slightly nearer resort called La Clusaz. This seemed to be almost entirely full of French families whereas the 3 VallÃ©es had a lot of English and Irish groups. It’s a smaller resort but still plenty big enough for me. I thought the snow was a bit worse but there were some lovely long easy trails through the forest which I enjoyed although the workmen shovelling snow from the sides on to the piste were a bit unnerving.

I fell over because my skis stopped suddenly on grass. Easy enough to get up I suppose but unpleasant. I really had a complete failure of nerve and refused point blank to go up to the top of the mountain and ski down a red with my brother. We had lunch up the mountain in a less lovely self service restaurant (I took my eye off the ball there) and then skied slowly down to the bottom. I sent my brother off up the mountain and took the button lift up and down the nursery slope. Humiliating? Well yes. Enjoyable? Also yes.

I finished up and went into town where everyone was dressed up for mardi gras. Asterix was the theme in the cafe where I went for a restorative vin chaud.

My brother made it safely off the mountain and we went into town where we had a booking at a lovely restaurant. I’d got him a voucher for there for Christmas so it seemed a bit unfair that I should get to benefit but he didn’t seem to mind and we both really enjoyed our dinner.

Wednesday, 22 February

Up at the crack of dawn to get my flight home. I have to say my brother was a brilliant host. He went to loads of trouble and I had an excellent time. Who would have thought it?

My kind husband collected me from the airport and after some confusion we managed to find each other. This enabled me to forgive him when I found that he had turned off the Aga. It was considerably colder in Dublin than in Annecy so it went straight back on again. The bill is truly terrifying and probably not great for the future of snow either but there it is.

The blossoms were out on next door’s plum tree and spring was a lot further along than when I left it. All in all nice to be home. I want Mr. Waffle to contemplate a spring break in Annecy next year though. We will see. Meanwhile, I have bought myself a Christmas table cloth as a souvenir. Mr. Waffle got a chimney sweep fridge magnet. Delighted.

Exhausted

9 February, 2023
Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Twins, Youngest Child

Leaving the children to study, Mr. Waffle and I spent the long weekend enjoying ourselves on a series of walks which they were, obviously, devastated, to miss.

On Sunday we explored the joys of Howth and Sutton. It’s really close to the city but I felt like I was on holidays, exploring the unknown on my bike by the beach. Recommended.

Beautiful sunset as well. The picture really doesn’t do it justice.

We stopped off for a cup of tea in the Marine Hotel in Sutton which is an odd spot. They have very firm rules about when they will serve you. Mr. Waffle who doesn’t really list patience among his many virtues was not delighted to be told to wait outside when there were free tables in the restaurant. We got our tea eventually although it was a long drawn out process. We need an alternative tea venue.

Then on the Monday we went to Wicklow and walked to Lough Dan. It was very beautiful though a long downhill followed, inevitably by a long trek back up. Vigorous.

Then Mr. Waffle went away for work. He reminded me anxiously of all the things that needed to be done in his absence including bringing in the green bin. When I went out to get it, I discovered that he had in fact brought it in himself before he left. An absence of trust there.

I dropped him to the airport (a – I shouldn’t be surprised but I was – lengthy process) and spent an afternoon running around doing various dull though almost continuous tasks (I cannot wait to step down from the parents council; we are currently at – v polite – war in relation to a proposed new cycle lane outside the school). The next day was the same. In the absence of a maths teacher in school – please do not ask me – the neighbour’s child who is doing a PhD in maths arrived in to give the children a grind. It went alright I think but they are absolutely flattened.

I had lunch with a friend in her house out in the suburbs – a longish cycle it transpires – and as well as lunch she gave me a plant (still alive today) and a clutch of magazines that her Dutch mother-in-law keeps for me on the Dutch royal family (they’re in Dutch, it’s educational). Very thrilling.

I collected Mr. Waffle from the airport at 11 last night and, as I said to him, I have never been gladder to welcome him home. “Imagine,” said he, “if you were working as well.” I am imagining. I suppose I would manage but I would not enjoy it.

It’s mid-term next week, thank God, we all really need a break from school.

Mocks

2 February, 2023
Posted in: Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Twins, Youngest Child

Things are a bit tense here at Waffle Towers. The boys are doing their mocks and finding it trying. Yesterday evening I made them do an online session on how to do the Leaving Cert maths paper. Given that their maths teacher is on mat leave and the newly found replacement is a masters in engineering student (i.e. not a qualified teacher but any port in a storm) who is from abroad (i.e. has never done the Irish Leaving Cert), I thought it might be useful.

I reminded them of the session over an early dinner, the news was met with the levels of enthusiasm you might expect. Mr. Waffle made comforting noises as I insisted. “Why are you always bad cop?” asked Daniel. Good question. Mr. Waffle as the child of hippies is above competition, it’s all brother bear and sister moon and let’s go with the flow. Is this attitude going to get them through the exams? I doubt it.

After the online session, Daniel arrived down to give us the review. He conceded that it was actually quite useful but that he had logged off once the questions started as they were all a bit stupid.

Mr. Waffle joked, “There are no stupid questions just stupid people.” We looked at him. “Where’s brother bear now?” asked Daniel.

Anois Teacht an Earraigh

1 February, 2023
Posted in: Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Twins, Youngest Child

Today is the first day of Spring and my mother’s birthday. I still really miss her, I suppose I always will. She was so full of enthusiasm and joie de vivre and she loved birthdays.

It’s also the feast day of Saint Brigid – Ireland’s female patron saint – and to celebrate the end of Covid, we are having a new permanent holiday on the books on the first Monday of February. My mother would have been delighted. Her grandsons currently sitting their mock Leaving Certificate examinations are also grateful to St Brigid for this relief.

And this is the poem I always think of today. Not a great translation but it gives you the idea.