For those of you wondering how my firstborn is getting on in far off England, I offer this exchange from a call the other evening to show that she hasn’t let England change her.
It was, in fact, my fault. I was wearing headphones and my phone in the depths of my handbag had reduced its volume to zero.
I got the mantlepiece clock that my grandparents got for their wedding (in 1922 or 23) repaired. I remember it from my Granny’s house. It put in a good few years in the attic in my parents’ house after she died and eventually made it to my house where it has been sitting on the mantlepiece silently for many years.
Fixing it has been on my to do list for some considerable time. Recently, I took it to the (elderly, grumpy) clock repair man. It was pricey enough to get it fixed and, as the repairman unhelpfully, but honestly I concede, pointed out, the investment in repair in no way added to the commercial value of the clock (approximately zero). However, I am enjoying the full Westminster chime and the bongs on the hour and the more modest quarter hour chimes. I must confess though that there is some consumer resistance from other family members.
The 46A bus in Dublin is being discontinued. The petitions to retain it, the news coverage, the discussion by local elected representatives and the half page article in today’s Irish Times all strike me as a bit excessive. Mr. Waffle commented to his sister in London that he is hoping for a coffee table book by Irish Times commentator Fintan O’Toole (lamenting the loss of the route) and explaining how things would be better if Fintan were in charge. Just in case you’re wondering, this bus route is being replaced by, apparently, faster more frequent buses on the same route (although you will have to change buses, a subject of much discussion).
The 46A also features in the chorus of hit Bagatelle number “Summer in Dublin“. The line is “My humming was smothered by a 46A and the scream of a low flying jet” so, if you ask me, not really a ringing endorsement for the 46A. However, the singer “hopped on a bus to Dun Laoghaire” (those of us in the know are aware that the 46A goes from town to Dun Laoghaire) stopping off to pick up his guitar (honestly, madness even now to get off a bus and hope to get on another any time soon but presumably a lyrical requirement). Bagatelle are not known outside Ireland (other than weirdly for one song in Uruguay) but “Summer in Dublin” is still popular in Ireland with a certain age demographic and their unfortunate children.
My insane husband felt impelled to take the 46A somewhere during the week. How was it? “Very like a bus journey, had to wait ages and then, you know, I was on the bus.”
Dublin bus has put out the old 46A buses for the last day of service and my neighbour posted a picture to which Mr. Waffle commented, perhaps mindful of his recent experience, “Two together – typical!”
Updated to add: More 46A content, was a bus route ever more loved?
The mother of a woman who works with me died yesterday afternoon. The removal was in the midlands, this evening, from 4 to 7. I left work at 4.30, cycled home like the wind and hopped into the car at 5.
My theory that remote working means that there is now no traffic in Dublin on Mondays was put to the test and found sorely wanting. It took me an hour to get out of the city and then when I finally got on the motorway there was dense fog.
As I drove along (carefully, slowly) I thought there was a very good chance that the removal would be over by the time I arrived which led to a certain amount of tension. And I had to stop for petrol.
I arrived at 18.55 and the hearse was outside the funeral home with the boot open but still there. The deceased had nine children (including my colleague) and innumerable grandchildren so there was still a queue of people out the door waiting to sympathise (my colleague said they had been shaking hands non stop since 4). What a relief.
My colleague who is a lovely older lady (so few people I can say this about now – her mother was 90) seemed really glad to see me which was the point of the exercise and I was glad I went. Nevertheless, I would like my next funereal duties to be in Dublin if at all possible.
Gym update (not from me obvs): Dan reports that Dermot Bannon was on the gym TV on Saturday and not only did Dan recognise him but also the episode Mr. Bannon was presenting. Definitely my fault. And I’m making them all watch The Traitors too. Quality television for the mind, that’s me.
I went into town yesterday and parked my bike in a perfectly normal fashion and came back to this psychotic situation.
Today has been a glum day as I have spent hours avoiding doing my project work for a course I am doing at work (nobody made me do it, I volunteered for it like a complete fool); two hours actually doing the project work; and, when I gave up in despair, about 5 minutes realising that there is at least another four hours work in this (which will have to be done this week) and that there is an examination in April which, based on my meagre understanding of the course so far, is going to require a bit more studying than I have done to date (i.e. none).
We have selected our books for the year for Monday night book club – here it is in case you are interested and have any views on the books (“Death at the Sign of the Rook” is the new Kate Atkinson).
A lot of them look a bit worthy despite everyone’s best intentions. And I’ve just realised that I have to read the book for my Sunday book club this week having failed to do so over Christmas. I may have to call a moratorium on all these hard books and go back to re-reading Georgette Heyer for the month. It is proving a long January. And I am out playing tennis once a week too which, in the current climactic conditions, feels like masochism. I honestly think my hobbies may be going to kill me.
The only bits of good news from this weekend are:
How was your own weekend?
Due to the very generous citizenship policy of Canada my husband (who was born in Canada but left aged 2) and all three of my children (who haven’t even been to Canada) are Canadian citizens. Herself went through the hoops required (I mean, fair enough, hoops are appropriate given her tenuous link to the motherland) and her Canadian passport arrived today. A nice passport, I must say, they’ve gone for navy with a certain amount of maple leaf and a very elaborate gold crest. If she moves to Canada, it will make London seem next door. Let’s hope she doesn’t move to Canada, shall we?
I told her it arrived and after preliminary excitement I said I would put it in her room. These were my instructions:
Thank you! Put all in white box under bed, side nearest window (my filing system). There should be a piece of paper on top saying “do not throw away”: reaffix.
There are times when she reminds me vividly of my father. Can I say again that my reputation for throwing things out has been very much exaggerated?
