Spotted advertised recently – A Céilà Speed Dating Event. The mind boggles.
Heartwarming
At my tennis coaching, a new Polish coach turned up. As we chatted before training he mentioned that he had been playing in a match at the weekend but had lost. “Oh dear,” we said sympathetically. “Well, I had not played for 16 years,” he said in the frank manner of Poles of my acquaintance. Seeing that his new class looked less than entirely entranced with this piece of information, he explained his remark:
I was in Ireland working in construction but then my job disappeared [like so many others, alas] but I was stuck here [again, the Polish frankness], I have an Irish wife and baby, what was I to do? I went to FÃS [the employment and training agency] and they asked me what I could do. They had nothing for me. “Are you any good at sport?” I said no and they said, “Pity, because we need tennis coaches.” Then, I said, actually, I played in Silesia from 6 to 14 when I started playing adult leagues because I was too good for the kids leagues [Poles are not big believers in false modesty either in my experience] and I got sick of it. So, they said great, I re-trained as a tennis coach and here I am. And, I have to say, he was absolutely terrific. I really admire people who turn around and find a new career and I am so glad that he didn’t head back to Poland with his wife and baby because, God knows, we need the coaching.
God and Pharmacology Working Together to Make a Better World
I was ill last week. I am almost never properly ill (as opposed to whining and sniffling into work with some Lemsip in my bag). I did not enjoy it. I had taken some time off work to go to Cork with the children for mid-term and I was not pleased with the timing of my illness. Reluctantly I dragged myself to the doctor and paid €55 for a diagnosis and a course of antibiotics. I started straight away.
My father is a pharmacologist. He is against the reckless use of antibiotics. This was therefore my second ever course of antibiotics. They were quite miraculous. I was able to drive to Cork as planned. I picked the children up from school having told them that this would not be possible as I was too sick. They were pleased. Michael was unsurprised: “I told the teacher you were sick and we wouldn’t be able to go to Cork and I was sad. So, we all said a prayer for you to be better and now you are!”
Lent
I can’t believe that I’m 42 and I’m still giving up sweets for Lent. Somehow, I thought life would have given me more glamorous things to give up at this stage.
A Day Out
As I mentioned we were in Cork at the weekend. I decided to take the children to Charles Fort.
Me: Tomorrow, we’re going to see a fort!
Daniel: I don’t want to go.
Me: It’ll be great, it’s a really big, impressive fort.
Daniel (dubiously): But forts are invisible.
Me: Not this one, it’s huge.
Princess: A fort Daniel, not a fart.
The next day we set off to walk two long kilometres to the fort. We did not get off to a good start. Daniel had a sore knee which I thought would go away, but didn’t. He just limped there and back uncomplainingly. My saintly middle child. Michael meanwhile dragged himself along saying “My legs are so tired”. He was the first to realise that once we got to the fort we would have to walk back again. He wasn’t pleased. I wasn’t so pleased myself, I had three unhappy children and I was carrying two guns – a pistol and a nerf gun – and a light sabre (to attack the fort).
However, once we reached Summercove, things began to look up. We were fortified by lunch at the Bulman (which I cannot recommend highly enough – herself had an enormous bowl of mussels, I had crab claws and the boys a portion of chips each – in our own way, we were all happy). Then the fort was great. And it didn’t rain on us. Always a plus in any Irish outing. And, as always, the road back didn’t seem quite so long.
Herself:
Saintly middle child:
Patrolling with Nerf Gun:
Scenery (obligatory):
Hot
I took the children to my parents’ house at the weekend. Mr. Waffle’s parents’ house is always a bit on the cold side for me and my parents’ house is always much too warm for him. This means that at home, I wear my fleece of an evening – mmm synthetics – and Mr. Waffle wanders round in t-shirts and shorts.
The children take after him. Herself couldn’t sleep with the heat in Cork and even I was quite warm. I took off my fleece. Ah, my Cork family observed, you have become a Waffle. Still, my mother, who feels the cold terribly couldn’t really believe that any human being could really be so warm. As herself lay sweating under a single sheet, my mother asked me anxiously, “Do you think that she’d like a hot water bottle?”