Every year, I am astounded by June.
It’s bright almost 24 hours a day and the weather is lovely. All the roses come out. The garden becomes out of control.
Disclaimer: This is not my garden but look at the verdant foliage. It’s on the way to school in the morning.
Further disclaimer: This is manifestly not my garden and is, in fact, in Cork. But it makes the verdant foliage point strongly.
Meanwhile, at work, I realise that I am taking leave over the summer and throw myself into all the things that must be completed by end June. The bitter discovery when I return in September that they are no further advanced is not foremost in my mind in June. This June is worse than usual as I am supposed to be moving to a new role in September. Then we have a cyclical high profile event in June which requires constant vigilance and somehow, no matter how well prepared for (and, trust me here, it is really well prepared for), June itself always throws up a couple of crises.
Locally, the church garden party and the street party always happen in June. We had the church garden party at the weekend. I manned the sumo wrestling stand. No joke I can tell you.
The street party is yet to come but I see a starring role for the Waffles as Mr. Waffle is chair of the residents’ committee.
Sort of related, herself has been baking like a demon. She made pretzels and brownies for the church garden party (the cream of the latter reserved for her London aunt who was in town for the weekend).
Recently she has also made grissini, brioche and, only this evening, crumpets. What are we to make of this?
Meanwhile, at school, there is frenetic activity: school tours, school sports day, graduation (from primary school!) and obligations like finding pillowslips (for the sack race) and funding in coins of small denominations at short notice. In fact, herself had an overnight school tour last week. They went to an adventure centre in Wicklow and had an amazing time: swimming, canoeing, midnight hiking; and just running around. Unfortunately, I forgot to tell the childminder that she wouldn’t be coming home on Thursday and he and the boys waited patiently outside the school for her until he got hold of Mr. Waffle who was able to clarify. For the amusement of non-Irish readers, see items 1 and 2 on the list of what she had to bring.
Also associated with the end of the school year are various presents which must be purchased and offered to teachers as appropriate.
The GAA goes into overdrive with a summer mini-tournament almost all the time. Poor Daniel is practically always running out the door with a hurley in his hand or returning pink faced and exhausted. Nor are scouts showing the slightest sign of let up. Michael went to the park this evening and returned filthy but happy.
And poor Mr. Waffle is away again, so I am keeping the home fires burning (metaphorically only, it is sweltering for Dublin, it may have been 20 degrees today).
All this to say, posting may continue to be light in June.
Oh, and happy Bloomsday, if that is your thing. Maybe, this year I will finally read “Ulysses”. If you have done so, please indicate whether you found it even slightly readable.
