I am sitting here in wonder. My brother has never heard of the song “Let It Go”. He’s firmly refusing to believe it’s famous. I’m refusing to believe that he hasn’t heard it. I’ve sung it for him in English, French and Dutch (that’s how I roll). Very reluctantly, he has conceded that the fact that the version he looked at on YouTube has 450 million likes might mean that some other people are aware of this obscure number.
Plumbing and Logistics
Our toilet is blocked. Mr. Waffle is upstairs deploying a plunger. The bathroom floor is covered with newspapers. He’s been at this since we got home at 6.30 this evening with only a brief respite for dinner. I feel I am setting a poor example for my children by making plumbing a gendered space but I just can’t face it myself.
We are facing into a logistically complex 48 hours with me going to Cork, herself going to a friend’s house miles away to sleep over (needing to be collected on Saturday morning), Michael doing a thing with scouts and Daniel with his usual Saturday morning GAA match. Today, I have made appointments with doctors and dentists and committed to sending photos to a piano tuner. A number of Christmas events are bearing down on me and I am in no position to be either a host or guest due to complete lack of organisation. Have I laid in any small tasteful presents to dole out at the appropriate moment? I think we both know the answer to that question.
Oh yes, it’s approaching the most wonderful time of the year. You will excuse me, I need to sit quietly in a darkened room while listening to peaceful suctioning noises emanating from the upstairs bathroom.
And to the Americans, happy Thanksgiving. I can only rejoice that this is not an Irish celebration. It might tip me over the edge.
Pedants’ Corner or How We Amuse Ourselves at Breakfast
From: Herself
To: Me
Re: Girls’ and women’s
Sent: 07:51 (14 hours ago)When your last hope for humanity is the cereal box.
I think herself is concerned that she may be one of the only people now living who is familiar with the correct use of the apostrophe.
Also, does everyone else read food packaging labels when there is nothing else available? I think it is hereditary; my father still knows off by heart all the labels which graced his parents’ table in the 20s and 30s.
Commemorating
As part of what we are calling “The Decade of Centenaries” every primary school in the country is being given a national flag in a formal ceremony. Representatives from the Defence Forces turn up at the school; the proclamation of independence is read; and the children learn about the protocol for looking after the national flag (handy, on all sorts of occasions, I am sure). I think they then use this knowledge to hoist the flag up over every school for Easter 2016.
The boys had their flag visit today. Three of the children from the school got to read out part of the proclamation of independence during the ceremony and Daniel was one of the chosen few. He was very proud. The Irish was quite hard too. He had the bit about “cherishing all of the children of the nation equally and oblivious of the differences carefully fostered by an alien government, which have divided a minority from the majority in the past”. No prizes for guessing to whom the alien government refers. It’s all peace and reconciliation now, of course.
As part of the celebrations, they got no homework tonight. I am sure that the signatories of the proclamation would be delighted.
Romantic Text Messages in Middle Age
Mr. Waffle was putting out our bins this evening and he ran into our next door neighbour putting out their bins. Her husband travels a lot for work but she said that no matter where he is or in what time zone, he always texts her to let her know which bin* to put out when.
Unrelated: it was lashing here this evening but Daniel still spent an hour out at GAA training getting damp and filthy. The Gaelic Athletic Association is not for the faint hearted. Also this evening, Michael got his first scout badge; great rejoicing.
*Green for recycling; black for general and brown for organic (only Mr. Waffle and Mr. Next Door can remember which bin goes out on which night).
Last Sunday of the Liturgical Year
I woke up this morning feeling miserable. I felt progressively worse as I had my shower and ate a solitary slice of toast for breakfast. I crawled back into bed at 10.15 with a hot water bottle and wet hair (too ill to dry with hair dryer, yes, I know what you’re thinking) only briefly rising again to stand over the toilet feeling like I was going to be sick. I was convinced that I had flu. I’ve had it once before and I was very afraid.
I woke up again at 2.30 feeling largely fine. A bit of a headache and haven’t had anything to eat yet but I am dressed and walking around and my legs no longer feel wobbly. A mystery. My hair leaves a bit to be desired though.
Anyhow, as well as being the last Sunday of the liturgical year it is also what our Church of Ireland friends call Stir Up Sunday, (who knew that this was going to be an ecumenical post?). Showing positively Protestant levels of organisation, I had left lots of fruit soaking last night in stout and brandy. I went and bought new pudding bowls yesterday as, by some bizarre process they always disappear from one year to the next (or, at the very least, the lids do). I was therefore, this afternoon able to tip in the remaining ingredients all of which I had acquired earlier (chopped hazelnuts – yes, ground almonds – yes, chopped walnuts – yes etc). I was totally on a roll and filled with smugness until I got to juice and rind of an orange. I mean, really, we always have oranges, there was no need to get them in. But, oh no, not today. The Princess and I went out to the corner shop and as far as she is concerned, it was a total win as she got chocolate to melt for her chocolate moustache mould (every house should have one).
So my plum puddings are made and now all that remains to do is steam them for a fortnight. This is hard won experience over my five year plum pudding making period; there was a time when I thought two and a half hours would do it. Hah. I am genuinely expecting to be steaming these puddings all evening for at least a week.
