Me: I see Microsoft have suspended new business in Russia and are scaling back operations.
Mr. Waffle: Russia has performed an illegal operation and will now shut down.
Mr. Waffle
Small World
Mr. Waffle went to Warsaw for a college reunion trip. He was a bit nervous because of much trailed airport chaos. In the end it was fine in Dublin but his KLM flight did get cancelled because of chaos at Schipol and he had to fly back Ryanair which he did not love. One of the people on the trip was someone who is a former colleague of mine.
Meanwhile a current colleague of mine was flying via Warsaw after a trip to Armenia to see the Irish football team (a slightly crazy level of devotion, if you ask me and one which is rarely rewarded with a win). He flew via Warsaw and as he was sitting having a drink in the pub at the airport a hand tapped him on the shoulder and, of course, it was his former colleague on her way back from the reunion.
Michael asked me recently why the Irish divorce level is so low and I think it must be because people cannot have affairs. No matter where you go there will always, always be someone you know waiting to tap you on the shoulder.
Greetings from the Plague Pit
Apparently this is what Mr. Waffle has taken to calling the bedroom where I live and have my being. Today’s test had the faintest line that took ages to come up.
My sister points out that the test is a yes/no test and the faintness of the line is irrelevant. She cites as her authority her final year thesis. The internet, sadly, confirms. I mean, I’m not saying that her first class honours (as she reminded me) thesis was wrong but things might have developed. Things have not developed. This is taking forever.
Said sister was in Dublin today and brought me up a box of stuff that I had saved from my old bedroom in Cork. A large plastic box of stuff. What was I thinking? We had tea in the garden which was nice. But I want to break free as the song goes.
Mr. Waffle, Daniel and the Italian visitor are off watching Dublin play Cork in Croke Park. Let us hope that I will have a negative test tomorrow.
Bitter Bitter Bitter
Mr. Waffle regularly has correspondence published in the Irish Times and just as regularly people contact me saying, “Was that your Barry in the paper?”. My friends, mind you. Anyhow, I had my own letter published in the paper recently. Did anyone see it and comment to me? No, no they did not.
Not Roman Holiday
The Italian exchange has arrived. Mr. Waffle and Dan took him into town this morning and showed him the sights. They seem to have been very thorough in Rome and I think there is hardly a significant sight that Dan hasn’t seen. I felt we were on our mettle and, let’s be fair, even on a good day, Dublin is not really going to rival Rome. But it seems to have passed off peacefully and the visitor expressed suitable interest in our local sights. The visitor seems to be a nice polite young man. At about 9.30 last night he asked, “Where’s the sunset?” so the lads were able to fill him in our long summer nights. Already he has learnt something from this cultural exchange.
They’re off in the Dublin mountains zip lining this afternoon. I had firm instructions to conceal from the visitor that I speak Italian but, for obvious, reasons, it hasn’t really arisen so far. He speaks pretty good English. The Italian school system has a strong literature focus which is why Italians are familiar with Shakespeare and Blake (yes, really) but weak on finding their way to the train station. This is not a problem for our visitor, in fairness.
I did not tell you that my last week at work was slightly blighted by bicycle chain problems (now resolved you will be pleased to hear). One night, as I was leaving about 8 the man in the portacabin at the gate insisted on helping. I begged him not to but he insisted. After about 10 annoying minutes he said, “The problem is, that’s broken you’ll have to take it to a bike shop.” I thanked him as civilly as I could, wheeled the bike around the corner, turned it upside down and after some poking to deal with the damage the man in the portacabin had wrought, fixed it. A group of Italians nearby burst into applause. They were from Naples and very pleased though not surprised to find an Italian speaker available to them. They had a number of queries about the joys of Howth. And also the pronunciation of Howth. If only it had featured in the English literary canon they would be alright.
So I’m still confined to my bedroom. My sister sent me a cheering hamper of food.
Today’s test is definitely a less strong line than earlier in the week so maybe, maybe tomorrow I will be released back into the wild. Let us remain optimistic.
The Goldilocks Problem
I have porridge for breakfast. In my current predicament, I was too sick to eat anything until Sunday and then my kind husband made me porridge for breakfast. It was like cement. I asked him to put in more milk the next day (beggars can be choosers it turns out). Too milky, dammit. On the third day Michael took over. He was rather grumpy about the detail of my instructions. The porridge exploded in the microwave and he had to clean it up. He was even grumpier about that . He poured the remaining porridge into a bowl for me. He added chopped strawberries (“I know how to chop a strawberry!”) and left the leaves on (he does not know how to chop a strawberry). All that said, it was pretty good. This morning Daniel took up the baton. Daniel is an adventurous cook and always interested in new things. I was hopeful. This morning outside my door there was freshly squeezed orange juice in a jug (tick), a ramekin of maple syrup (tick, tick) and a beautifully presented bowl of porridge with raspberries on top (tick, tick, tick). However, was the porridge a bit on the hard side for your correspondent? It was.
Michael commented on hearing of the latest developments, “Only one can give you what you seek but the price is too high”.
Am I finding self-isolation a trial? I am.
As I write Mr. Waffle is picking up the Italian exchange student from the airport – Daniel revealed last night that Italian exchange’s grandfather, i.e. Mr. Waffle’s friend’s father was a very big cheese in the Italian legal world, perusal of Wikipedia confirms that this is true. In 30 years of Mr. Waffle’s friendship with this woman, this was never mentioned – this would not be true if she were from Cork.
Mr. Waffle and the boys tidied up the house in anticipation of the Italian’s arrival and made up a bed for him. Sadly the only duvet cover they could find was the one with the pink bunnies – a relic of an earlier time. Oh well. Lads, if the Italian exchange gets Covid, we’re all doomed.
