belgianwaffle

Queen of Cafés

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Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Twins

I met middle child and Mr. Waffle for lunch today in a café where I have been going for many, many years. I used to work near there and go there a fair bit but I work in a different part of town now and go much less frequently. Middle child had never been there – as Mr. Waffle said, they have anti-student prices – but enjoyed it. Both of my lunching partners were surprised to see one of the waitresses surge out from behind the counter and embrace me saying, “We haven’t seen you in ages.” I was a little surprised myself but gratified. “I have been here 19 years today and I remember you coming in when I started working here,” she said. When it came to time to leave she whispered to me, “Open your bag; we made extra scones today and I will give four to you”.

I remember once years ago at a slightly low point they gave me free cake. I tell you, loyalty has its privileges.

Silver!

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Posted in: Family, Ireland, Middle Child, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings, Twins, Youngest Child

Those of you following along at home will know that Mr. Waffle and I celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary in July. We celebrated on the August bank holiday weekend with his family and mine in a nice guest house in Wicklow where we have been before with the family.

There were various alarms in the approach – despite constant reminders, it came as a surprise to my brother; although my children knew they had to be there, their arrival was challenging in the case of the two who were abroad.

Herself was due to arrive from London at lunchtime the day before the dinner but missed her flight. After a fun day spent in Heathrow, where she learnt a great deal about airport administration and ticketing, possibly to the irritation of some staff members including the woman who said severely, “This young lady has been told she can’t get on a flight before 8 this evening”. The angel with the flaming sword was in an Aer Lingus uniform but apparently all the staff in Heathrow are subcontracted – who knew? I can’t help feeling that actual Aer Lingus staff would have been nicer. However, even her colleagues agreed that angel with the flaming sword was a bit grumpy (herself got to know them all) and the Princess finally got away on an earlier flight and was home by 8.

Meanwhile middle child was returning from a slightly disastrous sojourn in Paris. This child on crutches and a boot decided that rather than book a direct flight from Paris to Dublin – something that is readily available – that changing in Manchester was the better option. This may have saved €20 but it was €20 I was more than willing to pay. And it wasn’t just a quick stop in Manchester either; it was about 5 hours. Not really long enough to go into Manchester and explore (remember the crutches and the boot) but long enough to get a bus to the library in some nearby place and do some studying. I have so many thoughts. But I did get sent a picture of the police station in “Life on Mars” which seems to be relatively near Manchester airport – a genuinely excellent show which we watched over the winter and which has stood the test of time but not, I would say, worth travelling to Manchester for. It’s no Game of Thrones tour, I’ll say that. So, I was back to the airport at midnight to do another pick up.

Notwithstanding airline difficulties, I was extremely pleased to have all my children back in Ireland at the same time.

On Saturday we went off to Wicklow which took a lot longer than expected due to the Bray air show but we got there and we had tea and scones and then I found myself wondering what were we all going to do in the couple of hours before dinner. I had brought a photo album charting our 25 years together but that was hardly likely to keep us going until dinner time. My genius sister had prepared a quiz – and vitally – prizes. The quiz was all about Mr. Waffle and me so I really triumphed. So pleasing. Mr. Waffle felt it was unfair – he likes the sanctity of the quiz format to be respected, but I did not care.

The remainder of our time passed off without a hitch. I gave my speech (carefully prepared, heckled by my brother); Mr. Waffle gave his (invented on the spot, also heckled by my brother). I had wondered how the two sides of the family – who don’t see each other so often – would merge but that actually went really well. And I was thrilled that all the young cousins were there. It was really nice to do something to celebrate and I would totally recommend it.

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The next day the party split up and my sister said she was going to the outlet shopping centre and a number of us said we would go with her. In fact, two cars were needed to get there. In each of these cars there was one person who knew it was wildly out of the way and assumed anyone with a modicum of intelligence would know that. The rest of us with our tenuous grasp of geography thought it was only half an hour away and did not know that we had committed to hours in the car. By the time we arrived there, all tempers were extremely frayed. I had Mr. Waffle drop myself and middle-child at the shopping centre and then sent him and Michael on his way back to Dublin; a long journey as became apparent on the trip down, and one they were not super looking forward to. Herself, who travelled in the other car, said things were no better there. In fact, no sooner did the other car arrive than having disgorged the Princess and my brother, they hightailed it back to Cork. As part of my, unstated, plan was to have them drive us to the station at the end of the day, that was a matter of regret. It’s not that the station is far but one of our number was, you will recall, on crutches and in a boot.

I am very ambivalent about outlet shopping. I hate everything about it in theory but I love it in practice. We actually had a great time and got loads of nice things but I hate myself for enjoying it. And the walk to the station was grand in the end.

Coda. When Mr. Waffle and I got engaged, we went to a lovely jeweller in the Galeries de la Reine in Brussels to look at rings. She asked our budget and said dubiously, “For a small budget like yours, I don’t think I have anything; come back for your 25th wedding anniversary”. It sounds like she was being mean but she was actually charming. Now that saintly Mr. Waffle has shelled out for our 25th anniversary extravaganza in Wicklow, he may think I have forgotten this, but I have not.

Long in the Tooth

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Posted in: Cork, Dublin, Ireland

I have returned from holidays – more’s the pity – and a full update on my trip will follow. Something for you to look forward to.

As now seems inevitable whenever I go away for any period of time, I chipped a tooth. I made an appointment with the dentist for shortly after our return. I am in the daring process of changing dentists. The whole thing has taken years. For a long time, I have suspected that my former dentist was very interventionist, he was certainly very expensive. Other friends who were with the same dentist had drifted away. His predecessor in title was a Cork man whose parents were doctors who had been a couple of years ahead of my father in college and who had been recommended to me by my friend whose father was my dentist when I was growing up.

When the recommended dentist retired, he sold the practice to new guy and I just stayed while feeling increasingly dissatisfied. Anyway the final straw on the new (about 5 years) dentist came at Christmas when he gave herself a standard filling and her face swelled up like a balloon. Look, he made a mistake, who hasn’t? But he didn’t say anything. When she went to the pharmacist for pain relief, the pharmacist thought she had had an extraction.

So I cast my bread upon the waters in the neighbourhood group chat and we have all moved to a local dental surgery which, at the very least has the merit of being nearby.

I was whizzing down there for my 9 o’clock appointment the other morning when my mobile rang. “Two minutes,” I said to the receptionist. I was honestly there about two minutes past nine but the dentist and nurse were standing in reception looking reproving. It turned out that the dentist was French. She was from Lille. She said, demonstrating very little faith in Irish people, “You wouldn’t know it.” “Au contraire,” said I, responding in French, “I have been there many times; I used to live in Brussels.” She smiled. She said to her dental nurse, “This is the first Irish person I have understood when speaking French.” I mean, a bit damned with faint praise, but she seemed warmer than she had been in reception. “I’m so glad that you understood my Belgian accent,” I abased myself. “Honestly there are worse accents, you could be from Marseille,” she said smiling. It was all going so well. As I was trying to think of other Lille facts with which to ingratiate myself with her, it came to me, “Wasn’t the guy from the south in Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis from Marseille?” This is a very funny films set near Lille. Well, I can tell you, the people of Lille do not like it. “People all over France quote lines from that film at me. It is terrible and not representative of the people of the North. Do you like Leap Year?” she asked me tartly. Of course I don’t like Leap Year it’s a dreadful film if you’re Irish. Anyway my chance to bond with the dentist ended abruptly. And I checked, the guy who comes north in Bienvenue chez les Ch’tis isn’t even from Marseilles.

But look she fixed my tooth and she said to me severely that I must wear my gum shield thing at night and she was so scary that I have been doing so since.

Meanwhile, I got a text message from old dentist telling me I have an appointment next week and to text yes to confirm or ring the practice number otherwise. He always answers that phone. I screwed my courage to the sticking point, rang and, unbelievably, got the voicemail which never happens. I left a message saying, “Thanks for everything but I’m changing dentists” and with one bound, our heroine was free.

I met a friend for lunch during the week and was telling him about my dental adventures including my regularly chipping teeth and he said, “Don’t you get the feeling that people aren’t really designed to last past 50 and everything just keeps going wrong from then on?” An unwelcome reflection. In fact, since he and his wife are the first of our friends to have a child get engaged, he is a regular source of reflection on my own mortality, so there is no need for him to add to it.

Alarming


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland

In early June, Mr. Waffle and I went into town for a middle aged adventure but when we got there Grafton street (the main pedestrianised shopping street) and the surrounding streets and the Powerscourt Centre (nice shopping centre in an 18th century building) were all closed. I was baffled and asked one of the many guards crawling around the area what was going on. Some EU Presidency thing I thought. I suppose the Guard was a bit sick of answering questions but he snapped back, “Someone’s been stabbed and killed.” What an alarming development. The internet rapidly informed me that a young man had been stabbed to death in a fight the night before. I always think my children will be safe in town but I didn’t like the sound of this. What can I do? Nothing but hope they will be sensible and safe, I suppose.

Mayo for Sam


Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle

Mr. Waffle and I decided to go for a nice walk in Portrane today. The weather is a bit cooler and very pleasant. We began with breakfast in Avoca in Malahide Castle. How great was my indignation when I discovered that they stop serving breakfast at 11.30? Pretty great as by the time we got there it was 12.10. I had a steak sandwich for breakfast. Not a form of breakfast that has been hugely popular since the 19th century. I am a city person and breakfast should be served until at least 2 on a Sunday; everyone knows that and these suburban outlets need to pull up their socks.

On the way to our walk we bought strawberries and new Queens potatoes from a bored teenager at the side of the road. The best strawberries I have tasted all summer by some distance. Our walk was, as hoped, nice.

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I forget what lovely beaches there are in north County Dublin – I don’t really think of Dublin as a very beachy place but it is. This beach compared favourably to those in the west of Ireland. High praise.

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Apparently it is also a place where the rules on horse access to the beach are not fully observed. That horse poo did not smell like it had been there since May.

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I went for a swim which was very nice but I was a bit nervous because a number of jellyfish corpses were visible on the strand. I didn’t see any in the sea but I couldn’t quite relax. With global warming the presence of jellyfish is becoming pretty common but it’s still a bit alarming to me. Herself says that it has led to mosquitos in London. She knows because she’s allergic and her leg swelled up like a balloon when she got bitten; even the pharmacist was impressed and gave her a course of penicillin.

Possibly related, I was the only person in the water which felt…peculiar? Did everyone else know something I did not? Was it the jellyfish? Was it the horse poo? It’s a blue flag beach and the local authorities had a sign up saying they tested the water most recently on July 13 and it was excellent. Let’s see whether I survive the night.

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We hightailed it home after our walk as the All-Ireland Gaelic football final was on (the winner gets the Sam Maguire cup, hence the title of this post) and we didn’t want to get caught in match traffic. We actually made it home in time to watch the end of the match. Mayo were playing Kerry in the final. Mayo have not won the All-Ireland for 75 years and Kerry seem to win it all the time. Everyone in the country was supporting Mayo except people from Kerry. The consensus was that this Kerry team would win no bother.

The excitement of the All-Ireland final hit the European stage earlier. For Ireland’s EU Presidency Each Member State of the EU (26 excluding Ireland) is paired with an Irish county (also currently 26, if you don’t count the new Dublin divisions and somehow no one ever does) and the Netherlands got Mayo which led to this exchange in the European Parliament. I applaud the Dutch enthusiasm.

Mayo wear green and red and Kerry wear green and gold. During the World Cup there were memes doing the rounds featuring those colours (apologies to English people who may find these images upsetting). The World Cup was all really about Gaelic Athletic Association rivalries some people may be surprised to hear.

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The story of the reason for Mayo’s 75 year drought which I must emphasise is completely untrue and known to be untrue by everyone is that the team which won the All-Ireland for Mayo in 1951 were returning home and a funeral cortege was ahead of them. The team were disrespectful and the parish priest put a curse on them and said that Mayo would not win again until all of the members of that team died. This is not traditionally a catholic priest power, in case you’re wondering. Anyway, Mayo have not won since though they have been to the final. One poor old gent survives from the 1951 team apparently.

Do you want to know who won now? I bet you do. It was Mayo.