The childminder was talking to me about the children’s homework. “Daniel keeps reversing his “b”s and “d”s,” he said. “Not to worry,” I said, “I used to do the exact same thing myself.” The Princess piped up, “I didn’t know that you were dyslexic Mum.”
– I’m not dyslexic, it’s just that when I was little I reversed by “b”s and “d”s.
– Dyslexia is nothing to be ashamed of Mum.
– I know it’s not, it’s just that I’m not dyslexic.
– It’s alright, lots of people are dyslexic, you know.
Archives for October 2012
Miscellaneous Cork News
I went to Cork for my parents’ anniversary. I was alone. Very exciting. My mother and I went for a walk in Kinsale. The weather was beautiful.
We had a family dinner where my aunt told us about how, as a young woman, she and a friend went to Torquay on holidays. They were desperate to see the News of the World which was not then available in Ireland. They promptly went the newsagent’s and bought the News of the World, the Observer and the Catholic Herald. As the newsagent said, that’s not a combination you see very often.
We bought my parents an iPad for their anniversary. So far they seem wary but broadly positive.
I decided to bring my Great Aunt Cecelia’s Persian rug back to Dublin with me as my parents have taken it up to stop themselves tripping over it and killing themselves. Given my reputation my mother said anxiously, “You can have it, but you’re not to throw it out.” I promised not. I imagined it transforming my room, a bit like in “The Little Princess”:
This is what she saw. In the grate there was a glowing, blazing fire; on the hob was a little brass kettle hissing and boiling; spread upon the floor was a thick, warm crimson rug; before the fire a folding-chair, unfolded, and with cushions on it; by the chair a small folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white cloth, and upon it spread small covered dishes, a cup, a saucer, a teapot; on the bed were new warm coverings and a satin-covered down quilt; at the foot a curious wadded silk robe, a pair of quilted slippers, and some books. The room of her dream seemed changed into fairyland– and it was flooded with warm light, for a bright lamp stood on the table covered with a rosy shade.
It didn’t quite meet those, admittedly stringent, criteria but I like it as does the cat:
That is all.
More Theatre
We went to see “The Last Summer” at the Gate. Oh the disappointment. As my mother-in-law said it was like amateur dramatics. Certainly as a tale of what was happening in 70s Dublin it was infinitely inferior to “The Boys of Foley Street“. Nobody was harrowed.
We ran into a glamorous friend of Mr. Waffle’s and went for a drink after the show. We were chatting about houses. I remembered that the last time I had seen her (about a year ago) she had been talking about how she had got her drawing room painted in various shades of red and that really it looked like a womb. This was fresh in my mind as I asked, “How is your womb?” Obviously, the conversation from last year wasn’t as fresh in her mind as in mine. She looked at me as though I was slightly insane. There was a nasty lull in the conversation. “Fine, thank you,” she said, a trifle coldly, I thought as I rushed to clarify. Oh dear, oh dear. [This woman was last mentioned in this blog here – under Saturday. Great to see that my levels of embarrassment are consistent with those of June 7, 2004.]
Losing My Mind
Last Friday, my sister was in Dublin and very kindly gave me a lift home from work. On Saturday, Mr. Waffle was due to take Daniel to GAA training. He went out to put the gear into the car and then rushed back into the house. “Where’s the car?” he asked. It came flooding back to me. I had [unusually] driven the car into work but, alas forgotten to drive it home again. Worse, I have form in this regard.
Healthy Exercise
The weekend before last we climbed the Sugar Loaf again. The children ran up and down. I struggled behind them as best I could. I was still stiff on Wednesday. Views from the top are still lovely though.
You are My World, My World, My World
Michael has started to keep a diary. He writes in it every day. Entries tend to be on the short side. Last week I couldn’t collect the children from school on Wednesday as I usually do. He read me his diary entry for that day: “Mummy didn’t collect us from school.” I was home a bit early on Thursday. His entry for that day was “Mummy was home early from work.” No one except my children will ever love me quite like this.
Age related query: Will that Communards song be stuck in your head all day now?
