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Youngest Child

It’s a Social Whirl


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

It was my birthday in March. Herself was home (day after her poor great Uncle’s funeral) which was great. We were to go for breakfast together but alas, a logistical issue with an application arose for her and we spent much of the morning trying (unsuccessfully) to resolve this before heading off for breakfast at 11 and then on to the airport after a short walk. While, obviously, it was delightful to have her here, it’s hard to say that taking your daughter to the airport so that she can return to the land of her exile is a complete highlight but, as she pointed out, she was due back at Easter so I would probably survive.

My family delivered on my birthday with a number of subscriptions including cheese (sister) and flowers (middle child). Very thrilling. Even youngest child remembered and sent a card (dates wouldn’t be his strong point). This only scratches the surface of the excellent presents received from all parties. How I love my birthday.

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To recover from dispatching the exile, I went in to Bewley’s for a restorative cup of tea and the waitress recognised me from previous adventures and basically asked why I wasn’t at work. “It’s my birthday, I’m off!” I said. She gave me free tea. God, I was thrilled.

Mr. Waffle also has a birthday in March so the Dublin contingent went out to dinner to celebrate. I don’t know that he really enjoys his birthday as much as he should. I think he feels he’s too old for this but I will never be too old.

It was sobering though to go to a friend’s 60th birthday drinks. That is old. Because Ireland is small a former colleague was there who turned out to be the birthday boy’s sister in-law’s daughter’s husband. Try to keep up.

I have been out for dinner a number of times with my tennis buddies moving on from the more challenging on court engagement to an arena where I truly shine. Speaking of tennis, on Palm Sunday I went to an early mass in a church where there are a number of regular crazy people in the congregation and the environment can be a little exciting but it had an early and speedy mass which I needed to get to a tennis match at 10.

To my surprise in the pew along from me there were some very clean cut enthusiastic Americans (mid-Westerners, so wholesome) responding clearly and crisply throughout (not a feature of the Irish congregation which is given to the holy mumble) and I felt that they might have gone astray in this city so I talked to them afterwards and it turned out their son was studying in Dublin and they had come to visit him. “It’s actually my first time…” began the son. “At mass since you came to Dublin?” I inquired based on knowledge of other people of his age. He was shocked. “No, in this church, I usually go to the pro-Cathedral.”

I scooted on to tennis and told my opponent about the encounter. “You go to mass??” said she. “Yes,” I said, a bit defensively. Apparently, I am not a beacon for the faith. “I’m amazed,” said she, “it’s just that I thought you were a Protestant.” Honestly, with my name I could never be; it looks like sectarianism may be on the way out. Or maybe she just thought I looked like I would be good at crafts (I am not good at crafts).

On that self-same day, I then had breakfast out with my husband, went to my bookclub for the afternoon and returned to welcome my sister to our home like the gracious hostess, I am. A bit too much perhaps.

Is this why I’m losing my mind? I went to Carlingford with Mr. Waffle a couple of weeks ago and I said to him, “Can we go to that place I like?” “What place, a walk, a sight, a cafe?” he asked. “You know, you know,” I said. “I do not,” said he. I rummaged deep in the recesses of my brain and said, “You know… Mornington Grove”. There was a long pause and then he said, “Do you mean Strandfield?” Truly, that was impressive work.

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Month’s Mind


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

Herself came home very briefly in March to come to her great uncle’s funeral. He was a lovely, lovely man. She was a prime favourite with him as he was a teacher and you know how a teacher loves a clever child. He was also absolutely hilarious and we all found him great company. The Christmas before last we were all together and, honestly, he was the star of the show.

This Christmas he came to our house just before Christmas and he seemed absolutely fine. His son was home from Spain for Christmas with his young family and the great uncle picked up a camp bed from us while he was here. I mean, just to show. And though he was 85, he was sharp as a tack and, just…well. But apparently not. He got sick after Christmas and went into hospital in late February and died in March.

His poor son in Australia flew home (36 hours as the Middle East was closed) and just missed seeing him before he died which was very sad but they were very close and spoke regularly so not so bad, I guess.

My sister-in-law came back from England as well and it was very nice to see her and the extended family. Poor old youngest child wasn’t able to get home from his Erasmus exile but watched the live stream from his student bedroom; I wouldn’t call it ideal.

The last surviving sibling in that family – my husband’s uncle was there as well. He’s really like his brothers and reminded me so much of my late father-in-law – just a very funny, charming person. It made me sad but he also made me laugh. He is almost 90 and seems very hale and hearty. Let us hope Mr. Waffle has these genes. The funeral was in the chapel attached to the school where the deceased uncle had attended himself, taught, and where his sons had also gone to school so he was very well known to the (pretty good) turn out of priests who were there for the service which was a good one. A clatter of young men from the school attended also which was a nice touch and came and dutifully shook hands with the relatives afterwards.

Outside the crematorium, keen eyed Mr. Waffle saw a memorial to Oscar Wilde’s father. Small world, eh?

We went for lunch with the mourners after and said goodbye to everyone. I really felt for the immediate family, they all seemed a bit shell-shocked. It’s definitely better for everyone when someone is well (and old obviously) and dies quickly but it’s such a shock for relatives in the moment; alas.

Turbulent Times


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

Mr. Waffle and I climbed the Sugar Loaf on Good Friday. It was extremely windy and we were nearly blown away. I have never before experienced such strong wind on that mountain which, despite the excellent views and impressive appearance, is generally an extremely straightforward climb. I once met a pre-school class on the top and one of the little girls had brought her bag on wheels (just to give you the picture).

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Still, despite the wind, it was a very satisfactory day out, all the more so as when we left Dublin it was absolutely lashing and we nearly didn’t go at all. In the end we brought our rain gear and didn’t even need it.

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I bought some linen napkins in Enniskerry afterwards. Middle aged thrills.

You might have thought that as my youngest child had returned to these shores (briefly, for Easter) from his Erasmus placement abroad, I would be spending all my time with him but you would have reckoned without his extremely full social calendar. He came back on Wednesday morning (April 1) and immediately plunged into a social whirl.

I was delighted with myself on Wednesday morning when I sent a message to the family group chat saying “Aaargh, youngest child’s flight is diverted to Heathrow, first born can you help?” Herself rang straight away with many questions and I revealed it was an April fool. Mr. Waffle was using the flight tracker and utterly baffled. Middle child sent a message saying, “You infidels have no need to blow up my phone before 8 in the morning” so not everyone was fooled. It was my greatest April fool ever and no one was even cross with me (which can be a risk).

Herself was due to come home on Saturday evening and I was dutifully waiting at the airport when looking at the flight tracker I saw her plane doing pretty elaborate loops. It was extremely windy and, alas, they took her back to London without landing. I was so relieved that she was alive that I resigned myself to her not being here for Easter. It was all pretty hairy she told us afterwards: “I’ve never been on a flight before where everyone screamed at the same time.”

She spent the night in the Radisson in Heathrow airport (congratulations to Hamish and Nishal on their wedding which was going really well judging by the background noises). And, thrills and delight got in to Dublin the next morning. Middle child and I had an extremely elaborate breakfast waiting for her (youngest child still in bed, note social life comments earlier) – see those new napkins getting their first outing.

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Weird aside, there were about 30 young men from an American school from Ohio at mass in their blazers and the priest said that they were here to play rugby. I have many questions.

We went to the in-laws for lunch (oh happy day) and spent the day with the extended family. It was really nice to see everyone and even though the children played monopoly together which, in my experience, is generally not a recipe for a good time, I think everyone did, in fact, have a good time.

On Monday we saw Mr. Waffle’s sister and her family for lunch; went for a walk; and then dropped herself to the airport. This was not without its alarms as BA had cancelled the return leg of her flight for their own obscure reasons but all was well in the end.

Today, Mr. Waffle and I cycled to Howth and although it was pretty pleasant it is quite far away and I am exhausted from my efforts.

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Our beloved youngest child is joining us for dinner tonight before he flies back to his Erasmus exile at the crack of dawn. It’s my last day off work and I guess the Easter excitement is nearly over.

How was your own Easter?

Continuing My Middle Aged Adventures


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

I am just in from visiting the Adam’s show room to inspect lots consigned for their upcoming “at home” auction. What a delight. Am I going to buy anything? Nope, but maybe next time.*

In fact, I went to quite a few house auctions last year. Since you ask, I didn’t actually buy anything but I enjoyed the experience. There’s nothing as good as poking around someone else’s house.

I am actively looking for a new dining room table having, with great reluctance, taken the one from my parents’ house in Cork which I never liked – a reproduction number with Queen Anne legs. However, a table in our dining room has improved it considerably and made it much more used so, as a concept, I welcome it. I just need a better table.

I have spent the past week clearing out the youngest child’s bedroom. All his stuff is now in his sister’s room. He currently has the box room and given that she has, alas, definitively moved out, if makes sense to move him to her double room. As part of this we are going to do up the box room a bit so her stuff is still in her old room. It’s horrific. I tell you this as I am keeping an eye out for a nice small desk for her as part of the move and saw a couple of possible candidates in my inspection at Adam’s. Though honestly clearing out the room made me mildly reluctant to ever bring anything into the house again. The whole thing took a lot out of me as I dug through the dusty Schliemann layers and sneezed through the process but it is done. Now to pin down the painter. I digress.

This whole house contents auction adventuring is not without its drawbacks. We went to inspect a house in the suburbs over the summer. The whole thing was basically a disaster. We spent two hours on the hottest day of the year trying to get there by the suburban rail line. There was some kind of fault and we ended up sheltering from the sun under a tiny canopy on a blistering platform. As I face into my 60th consecutive day of rain now, it’s hard to remember how unpleasant it was but I retain a feeling of mild rage which makes me think that I didn’t like it.

On the way home I went for a swim in Seapoint. This is quite the urban experience. When I was growing up in Cork, beaches were in the middle of nowhere and tennis courts were near the river surrounded by foliage. I have become more accustomed to Dublin where tennis courts can be right by the road or the train line and access to the sea is often via concrete. It’s hard to say Seapoint was at its best that day. It was very warm and it was full of people. Mr. Waffle declining the swimming opportunity went gloomily to sit on the ground beside a group of teenage boys who were playing loud music. They stopped him and pointed out that he was about to sit on dog poo and we were both suitably grateful and felt bad about our (mercifully silent) judgment of their loud music. I told a friend from Seapoint about this rather unsatisfactory experience. “I can only apologise,” said she, “if it’s any comfort my mother was flashed on the way to the beach the other day.” How would that be any comfort?

*Update: a not perfect – but better than mine – dining room table was on sale (estimate €600 to €1000) and it went for €60. It was a large Victorian mahogany table with 2 or 3 leaves and on castors (which is handy). I don’t know whether to be horrified (at the low esteem in which such items are held) or delighted (more bargains for me to find).

Liège


Posted in: Belgium, Mr. Waffle, Twins, Youngest Child

Can I tell you how surprised I am that my youngest child decided he wanted to go on an Erasmus trip? He was adamant that he wanted to go to Belgium where he was born and francophone Belgium to boot. I would have loved if he had gone to Brussels but the only university his faculty had an arrangement with was Liège so he decided to go there.

The preparatory period was not without its alarms. He discovered quite late in the process that he would be having a lot of lectures in French and he needed a certificate confirming his level of French was sufficient. This certificate was available from the Alliance Française at considerable expense and the test was after the date he was due to arrive in Belgium. His university authorities gave him a cert with a stamp. “How did they know you spoke French?” I asked. “They didn’t,” he said. I am very grateful to them for their flexibility; not a distinguishing characteristic of university administrators when I was in college.

Anyway, he got there and the day rolled round at last for his departure.

Thursday, January 29

I was working from home and took a half day only as we were travelling in the afternoon. If I have learnt anything from this experience it is that it is a terrible idea to try to work the morning you are travelling. You’re welcome.

I left the house in a state of some anxiety. We had a late lunch in the airport at this place called Fallow which I know to be vile yet I keep falling for its menu descriptions. I had the worst burger I have every had in my life and I dropped ketchup on the only pair of trousers I had brought for the weekend. A great start.

When we arrived in the airport, the car hire man said that he had upgraded us to a jeep. I am not the biggest jeep fan but this was not the biggest jeep. It was also canary yellow. I noticed that everyone treated me with a lot more caution than when I drive my ancient station wagon at home. There is something about a canary yellow jeep that says don’t mess with me.

Saintly Mr. Waffle drove us to Liège which is about an hour from the airport. We had agonised quite a bit about where to stay in Liège. The main university campus is a 15/20 minute drive outside the city and in the end we thought that it would be good to stay near there so the Erasmus student could acclimatise to his new surroundings. Huge mistake. We were in the middle of nowhere. Which is also where the campus is. It’s basically out in the woods.

The airbnb when we got there was lovely. And delightfully cosy. But actually trying to find it nearly sent us to an early grave.

“Who stays here?” said Mr. Waffle when we got in. Who indeed?

I signed up to uber eats something I had resisted to then but when the devil drives etc. I have to say, it was extremely efficient if not totally delicious.

Friday, January 30, 2026

First things first, we went in to the city for breakfast in the Pain Quotidien and very satisfactory it was too.

Himself went off to a welcome day (highlight was a tour of the opera house – whatever floats your boat, I guess) and Mr. Waffle and I had the day to explore.

Liège is a curious place. It was run by a prince bishop for about eight hundred years. It has all of the infrastructure you might imagine for such a place including a truly spectacular bishop’s palace. After 1795, there was no prince bishop but the area and the city became an industrial power house. An English guy called Cockerill seems to have been the main mover in the industrial revolution and there are still ample signs of his presence in street names and so on. In the industrial 19th century they built an opera house and the like. The city still reflects the money that was there in the past but like many another industrial region the post-World War II era has been one of long slow decline and Liège is left with the grandeur of another era and not a lot of money at present as far as I can see. Beside the river are acres and acres of rusting factory buildings from its heyday which is not the most attractive riverside feature.

I am developing a theory that the more affluent a place, the more likely it is to have good cycling provision. I will tell you, you would take your life in your hands cycling in Liège and the car is king with parking spaces everywhere.

As it was a prince-bishopric, churches are big in Liège. The biggest of all, the cathedral was knocked down in the revolution. It was replaced by the next best church which is now the cathedral and quite impressive all the same.

There are seven collegiate churches and all, I am sure, are well worth a visit but we only visited one. It looked a bit down at heel but we had it ourselves. Please admire St. Denis and a positively disturbing Curé of Ars.

Damp seems to be a bit of a problem.

Although there was some spectacular woodwork.

There was an absolutely terrifying confession box. What kind of psychopath installed this?

We went to the tourist office which was large, well-staffed and well-stocked and empty except for ourselves (to be fair the end of January is not perhaps the best time to visit). The man behind the desk seemed genuinely delighted to see us and was very helpful. Their guidebooks and maps were extremely useful so off we went to explore further.

I took us to the Curtius museum which was large but a bit dull. Mr Curtius supplied weapons for the Spanish army so munitions were big. The art collection was limited but there were a couple of examples of the lactation of St. Bernard. You were not aware of that? Well, here’s a treat for you.

Separately, I quite enjoyed the tranquil expression on the woman’s face in this offering.

There was also a very sad memorial to the Jewish population of Liège who were murdered during World War II.

The big thing to see is 374 steps known as the Montagne de Buren. It gives a good view and is not as hard to climb as you might expect.

Better than that is the way back down the scenic narrow roads.

These lead to the extraordinarily vast bishop’s palace complex which is across from where the cathedral once stood and is still the administrative centre for the province of Liège and the seat of the courts. We poked around a bit. I was unsurprised to see that the authorities in their wisdom had set aside one of the courtyards for parking.

We also had a look at the city hall.

Simenon was a local boy and apparently he liked this part of town. I suppose I should have brought one of his books to read on his home turf but I was not able for a French novel on top of the logistical challenge of installing a child in another country.

We went for a sustaining cup of tea and had this slightly intimidating cat glare balefully at us.

After Michael finished up, we went hunting for dinner. We had neglected to book for dinner believing we could stroll in anywhere. Apparently the burghers of Liège are good at booking ahead; we could not stroll in anywhere. We had a quite revolting dinner in a Danish tavern. I do not want to speak of it.

Saturday, January 31

We had a late start which Mr. Waffle did not enjoy. Is it my fault that he is always up and about at the crack of dawn?

He and I went for a nice walk in the nearby wood while our child slept on. God almighty this place is in the middle of nowhere.

We went to the supermarket and laid in stocks for the youngest child to survive in a foreign land. We checked out the Sart Tilman campus and we found where his faculty was. The area was full of young scouts in shorts; I had forgotten this aspect of Belgian life but scouts are very prevalent in Belgium. Millions of young children supervised by a couple of supremely laid back teenagers. It works for them, I guess.

We went to inspect the newly built and newly opened accommodation. When we arrived there both of those adjectives seemed inaccurate. The young man on reception in the old building confirmed he had our student’s name on the list but when asked whether the new accommodation would be open on Monday when he was due to move in, the student receptionist laughed and said laconically, “I doubt it.” This was not calculated to reassure the student and his parents.

We went into the local (one horse) town to recuperate. Pleasant enough in its way but not exactly hopping with life.

We pushed on and went into Liège to find dinner. It wasn’t as bad as the night before but it was hardly a triumph. It was a matter of some regret to me that despite Belgium being the home to really excellent food we had mostly mediocre meals. Alas.

Sunday, February 1

I made us all go to a long and quite early mass in the cathedral. The mass was described as “Irlandais” but all of the hymns were new to us and mostly French (some Latin). I just am unsure that this makes it an Irish mass.

Anyhow it was St. Bridget’s day and my mother’s birthday so it was nice to get an Irish mass, however served.

The closing hymn was Prince of Egypt by Hans Zimmer. Again I have some questions about the designation of this mass as Irish.

After a sustaining breakfast at the Pain Quotidien (eat what you know) we took our beloved child for an obligatory visit to the Bishop’s Palace. He was exhausted after this cultural adventure and we took ourselves back to our accommodation to regroup.

Mr. Waffle and I being gluttons for punishment went back into town to go to the art gallery to see a Doisneau exhibition. This was really great though heaving. Mr. Waffle actually met Doisneau when he (Mr. Waffle) lived in Paris and has one of his pictures signed by him. I had his picture “Les Locataires” on my bedroom wall for years. I hadn’t realised but Doisneau had taken lots of photos in working class Parisian suburbs and industrial towns. Really interesting. And all of the rest of the stuff you might expect.

I loved loads of the photos.

After a sustaining cup of tea we tackled the permanent collection. This was charming and, mercifully, small.

The picture they seemed proudest of was of Napoleon in Liège by Ingres and why wouldn’t they be?

But there were loads of other very enjoyable pictures. Paul Delvaux is big.

And there was also a Picasso.

There was a big picture by Constantin Meunier – another Belgian artist – who specialises in men doing hard physical work.

We had dinner in a pizzeria. Again, to be honest, a bit of a disappointment but look dinner is dinner. And as Liège is under touristed everyone was very excited to hear we were Irish, something other European destinations have become distressingly jaded by.

Monday, February 2

With some trepidation we brought Michael to his accommodation. The builders were on the same corridor as he was, fixing stuff. A woman was frantically cleaning in their wake. But his room was available. We rejoiced.

There was no wifi for the room and no electricity for the appliances in the communal kitchen. The washing machine was coming. This hilarious message came from the authorities the day after he moved in.

Within two weeks he had wifi (2 days later), kitchen appliances (1 day later) and washing machines (full two weeks he had to go into Liège to a launderette something not rendered easier by the ongoing bus strike).

I have to say that I did not feel fantastic leaving him with these rather meagre resources in a small dark room (which he, rather tactlessly, pointed out was bigger than the box room he has at home- he is to move to the firstborn’s room on his return from Liège as I have, with great reluctance, accepted that she’s unlikely to live at home again).

On the way to the airport Mr Waffle and I stopped in the small hamlet near his rooms where I had identified a supermarket which he might use. It dealt exclusively in luxury goods – you know the kind of thing, one perfect carrot on a silk cushion. Shortly after we left he had to buy toothpaste there. I was a bit surprised they had toothpaste but not at all surprised to hear it cost him a tenner. Teething problems, I guess (ha!).

Mr. Waffle and I headed off gloomily to the airport; however, for reasons which are not entirely clear we had lounge access. I would recommend. We discussed our worries in quiet with vast quantities of free food and drink. Could have been worse.

Let’s hope the student loves it in the end.

Plumbing the Depths


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

The washing machine broke a week ago last Tuesday. Bosch said it would take a week to send out a repairman. How could we last a week? We rang the plumber who said he could come the next day. He came. He said it would need a Bosch technician to repair it. He looked at our kitchen taps. A deeply unsatisfactory situation arose when the last plumber (now no longer on our books) came to look at the water pressure, broke the hot tap and replaced it with one that, ok, worked, but did not match the cold tap. A delightfully eclectic look. The new plumber said he could re-affix the old tap. Could he? Reader he could not. He said he would take it away with him and see if he could replace some element. He then replaced the non matching tap. For this, not entirely perfect, service he charged us €135.

I rang Bosch. They confirmed what was on the website, a technician could only be with us the following Tuesday. We washed by hand. Mr. Waffle, the youngest child and I went off for the bank holiday weekend (you will recall our new bank holiday on February 1 in honour of St. Bridget, a post-Covid reward for the people of Ireland) to set him up in university abroad where he will be spending a term under the Erasmus scheme. We left poor old middle child to fend without a dishwasher.

I must say, when we came back the house was spick and span but middle child had chosen to have six people around to dinner while we were away. That’s a lot of washing up to do by hand. The task was not rendered any easier by the replaced tap coming off (before it didn’t look great but at least it worked). Enterprising middle child had a pliers by the sink which was being used to turn on and off the hot tap. Again, I question our €135 expenditure on this.

The Bosch repair man came on Tuesday morning. He replaced a broken part and charged us €103 (labour and call out) plus €9 (parts). It works, I rejoice. This weekend Mr. Waffle and I are going to the plumbing shop to buy an entirely new kitchen tap set up. I can’t wait. You come here for the fascinating domestic logistics, I’m sure.