Me: G says that you are the strong, silent type and hard to get to know.
Him: Mmm.
Me: I quite like that. I think, my hero, the genius, I know him. But that can also somewhat undermine your glamour. Do you know what I mean?
Him: No man is a hero to his valet.
Me: Do you want to think about that?
Him: Behind every great man stands a slightly bemused woman?
Archives for March 2009
I feel it should be noted
That for the second time since the Princess was born, Mr. Waffle and I went away alone together at the weekend. We were separated from our progeny for just under 24 hours while my sister and Mr. Waffle’s parents did Trojan babysitting work. It’s not a very interesting post this but I felt it should be recorded for posterity.
We stayed in a (small) country house type place and all of the guests assembled in the drawing room before dinner. Among them were two older Americans and they were charming, interesting and delightful people and, I thought, really, if people are ambassadors for their country, then these people surely must do it better than anyone. I also thought, my God Americans are very well preserved. They looked fantastic and were well into their 70s. Apparently they still like to ski too.
Other guests were less thrilling. In large part this was because there had been a rugby match earlier in the day and they discussed it throw by throw and scrum by scrum. When I left the country five years ago, rugby was a minority interest. This is, alas, no longer the case. It seems to have come with the boom. Perhaps, if I am lucky, the recession might diminish the national interest in rugby as well as the national income.
Literary criticism
Me: Look “a crowd, a host of golden daffodils”
Princess (patiently, as though talking to the feeble minded): Yes, lots of daffodils.
Me: “I wander’d lonely as a cloud”.
Her: No you didn’t.
Me: Eh? It’s a poem.
Her: But you can’t wander lonely as a cloud.
Me (truculently): Why not?
Her: Look up, there are loads of them. Clouds are never lonely.
I can’t help feeling that this astute observation is probably as true in the Lake District as in Ireland. I’m holding off on our discussion of poetic licence for another day.
Sunday Reading
The Observer’s theatre critic went to see a new Mark Ravenhill play. She didn’t like it much. This line, I think, shows that these people earn their money:
The East German, failing to adapt to the market economy, retreats to the forest with his brother’s son (unconvincingly represented by a bath sponge)…
Meanwhile over in books, politician Peter Hain was damning a former colleague’s diaries with faint praise:
Anybody who has been a minister will enjoy this engaging tour de force, and anyone aspiring to be one will gain real insights.
Well that’s a big audience then. The publishers will be delighted. He goes on to concede that it will also appeal to the “curious reader”.
The author, Chris Mullin does not appear to have taken his responsibilities as seriously as Mr. Hain, something Mr. Hain is keen to emphasise at every possible juncture:
Most MPs are desperate to be a minister, and the minority of us who have been (I was for 11 years) feel privileged. Not Mullin.
He caused consternation by refusing to have a ministerial car or to take red boxes home at night and at weekends. How he stayed on top of the job without doing so I do not know. I always took at least one box home, which meant that an official vehicle was essential.
He also refused a pager and mobile; again, how he managed in today’s 24-hour, news-driven political world I have no idea.
Nevertheless, he again remained frustrated at an “utter lack of influence … Mine was a job for an ambitious thirtysomething rather than a grown-up.” I remember him saying something similar at the time and finding it puzzling. I had always found it possible to “make a difference”, even when a junior Welsh minister.
But he still hankered after a “proper” government job and, in June 2003, was made Africa minister, a rewarding post I had enormously enjoyed doing several years before.
Reading
Breaking Dawn by Stephenie Meyer
I enjoyed this. Mortifying disclosure, but there it is. Lots of plot and free rein is given to the Mormon talent for giving people really odd names (thank you, Kara for the insight into this lesser known Mormon trait, Kenneddee must remain a favourite).
When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit by Judith Kerr
This was recommended to me by a friend. It’s a child’s story about being a refugee and it’s great. Much better, I think than “The Diary of Anne Frank”, this may, partly, be because the narrator is still alive at the end. My edition was somewhat belittled by having exercises for children at the end (how would you have got on with rationing?). I cannot understand why publishers feel this kind of thing will make their offerings more appealing, particularly when they are publishing classics. What next a section at the end of “Pride and Prejudice” – how would you look in an empire line dress? That said, there was a very nice short piece by the author at the end talking about her experience from an adult perspective.
American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld
This is a great book. I read “Prep” when it came out and did not like it much and I was distinctly dubious about this one but it was excellent. It’s very long and it is a wonderful feeling when you are on page 15 of a 500 page book and you know you’re going to love it. It’s an imagined life of Laura Bush using real life incidents. It made me take an interest in Laura Bush for the first time. It also made me sympathise with her and think that it was a pretty invasive book. But good. It is very well written as was “Prep”. Unlike “Prep” the action does not take place exclusively in a small boarding school and for Ms. Sittenfeld’s style, this is a big bonus. She is, I think, slightly obsessed about class in America and, funnily enough, this book has less on that than “Prep” though the immensely lengthy bit on Princeton reunions was, frankly, too much for me. Overall though, this book is fascinating both for the imagined character of the American wife and her relationships with others. I was very sad to finish it. I plan to dig out more of her back catalogue.
End of Term by Antonia Forest
Speaking of back catalogue, I am now actively pursuing Antonia Forest books. When the publishing exec was back recently she rooted round in her bedroom and found a very battered copy of this book (every page has said farewell to the spine but mercifully all still there). I did enjoy it and I do intend to ferret out all the books in the series but I think that the first, fine careless rapture may have worn out. I am fascinated to discover through my internet research that the books were written over about 30 years and although only 2 years of fictional time elapse between the Marlow twins starting out in third remove and moving to upper fourth (I think), the author has blithely set each novel in the time in which it was written. I will report back. You stay on the edges of your seats out there.
Learning
It appears that Michael is not colouring properly. He does not make an effort. His teacher is cross. She told us this and we nodded seriously. She was not deceived. “I know” she said, “that you think it is only colouring, but it is important for concentration, how will he manage in September when there are 27 other children clamouring for the teacher’s attention?” We are planning to start the boys at big school in the autumn where the pupil teacher ratio will go from 6:1 – Montessori to something far less favourable.
Nevertheless, I am finding it hard to care. If his St. Patrick’s Day shamrocks are less coloured in than Daniel’s, well then so be it. With this kind of attitude at home is it any wonder that his colouring reports continue to be poor.
Meanwhile, I discover to my surprise that the boys both recognise numbers 1 – 10 (Daniel somewhat more readily than Michael) and are starting to point to letters and pronounce them phonetically. Clearly, they are learning something at school despite the colouring difficulties Michael encounters. I feel a bit guilty that I have only noticed these talents by the by and have done practically nothing to foster them. Daniel is desperate to start reading and sits running his chubby fingers under the words in books while saying them very slowly (he knows them off by heart). I think that he is trying to unlock the mysteries of his sister’s new reading trick. He sees her spelling them out to herself and thinks that, somehow, if he says the word slowly and runs his finger under it, it will work for him too. Who knows, maybe he’s right.
