We had our parent-teacher meeting for herself this evening. Her English teacher was wildly, extravagantly enthusiastic in an evening of general enthusiasm. Even her year head who, in previous years, has perhaps been a bit more sceptical pointing to both her limited appetite for PE and her tendency to be late for school as things which might be considerably improved, was entirely positive. Herself tells me he no longer has her for PE; he’s obviously given up on the timekeeping. This general enthusiasm is all the more notable as her hair has been dyed a faint but definite shade of pink in open defiance of the school policy which stipulates “natural hair colours” only. Where will it all end?
Archives for November 2019
Nà Bheidh a Leithéidà ArÃs Ann
The principal of our children’s primary school retired at the beginning of September. There was a big party for him and parents of past pupils were invited to attend so we went along. It was a lovely evening and I was impressed by how all the teachers remembered us and asked after the children. We said to the principal how happy the children had been in primary school and what a great operation he ran and he said, “Oh yes, even herself though she was in one of the most difficult classes we ever had in the school.” This was news to us but she got on fine anyhow, I suppose.
The former principal is from the Kerry Gaeltacht (his mother was a great friend of Peig Sayer’s – of course she was) and he went to secondary in St Brendan’s in Killarney. The principal of the children’s secondary school was at the retirement gig also having retired himself this summer. He went to St. Brendan’s as well, in fact the primary principal was a prefect when he started there. All of the clever boys in the Gaeltacht got scholarships to go to secondary school in St. Brendan’s (this was before free second level education was introduced in 1967). A former colleague of mine went there also and he described to me how, the boys from the Gaeltacht never spoke Irish to each other in school (even though the school taught Irish and was very supportive of Irish) but only started speaking Irish to each other again on the bus home at the end of term. There is something very poignant about this.
The new principals of the primary and the secondary school are both fluent Irish speakers but both of them learnt their Irish in school. There are fewer and fewer native speakers and it’s not quite the same, is it?
Michael at 14
Michael was 14 on September 27. As always, his birthday post is a bit late. He wouldn’t have it any other way, I’m sure.
He still loves to read. The other night, having finished “1984”, he was looking for “Animal Farm” (unfindable, truly our book shelving leaves a great deal to be desired) and I said, “I can see the cover in my mind’s eye, it’s an old edition, one of those penguin orange ones.” Michael started pulling out old editions and found a copy of “Faust”. “This will do,” he said. I urged caution but the next morning there he was sitting up in bed finishing volume 1. We haven’t got volume 2 and I am a bit unclear as to where volume 1 came from as neither his father nor I have ever read it. Michael pronounced it to be alright – a bit slow to start apparently – and he has no particular desire to continue on to volume two. I think he might enjoy Dickens beyond “A Christmas Carol” (perennial favourite) – now to see if any can be found.
He loves to watch youtube videos on his phone and he loves board games. Some of his friends share his enthusiasm but not as many as he would like and as these games often involve weeks of your life, he can find it hard to get takers. He is still doing drama although the older he gets the more the gender balance skews female. He is indifferent.
He is growing still and is now quite a bit taller than me and his sister but still a little shorter than his brother. He is very thin and, perhaps in consequence, feels the cold terribly. He still wears his coat around the house in winter and, although the house could be warmer, it’s not that cold. Triumphantly, the Aga in the kitchen means that he now takes off his coat at dinner. I am fighting an entirely unavailing battle to get him to hang up his coat under the stairs rather than slinging it over the banister. The rest of the family have yielded to what they regard as sheer lunacy on my part but Michael remains…resistant.
His diet is still far from perfect and quite limited but slowly it does seem to be expanding. I am delighted he is back on cornflakes and milk having abandoned them for some time in favour of bread and honey.
He still cycles in and out to school. This is pretty much his only form of exercise as he has, sadly, abandoned hockey and not taken up anything else instead – a very brief flirtation with golf having led nowhere. I discovered the other day that he is the only one of his siblings still cycling the approved (slightly longer but safer) route to school. He came off his bike the other day and wounded his knee and his dignity. I do worry about him on his bike but, at least he is on the quieter roads.
He and Daniel get on really well although occasionally they annoy each other. Michael is indifferent to public opinion but his brother is not. This makes singing in public something of a flashpoint; Michael will sing to himself walking down the street, Daniel does not love this. Michael and his sister interact relatively little as she has a full social life and a bedroom she likes to stay in but when they are together, they get on fine.
His favourite thing to do is stay at home in his pyjamas. My friend R called around unexpectedly while Mr. Waffle and I were out. Michael let him in and showed him the new kitchen. Upon our return, Michael said, “One of your friends called, I’m not sure which one, he had a bike.” On inquiry, R confirmed that it was he. “How,” I enquired “did you enjoy Michael’s dressing gown and pyjama look at 3 in the afternoon?” R replied, “It is the younger son of a German princeling vibe.” This filled Michael’s heart with joy as it is exactly the look he was going for.
He loves a romantic comedy and he and I sometimes sit down together and watch a Richard Curtis number on Netflix. He is a big Hugh Grant fan. What can I say?
He is doing fine at school – he is particularly good at English which he really enjoys. He’s good at memorising poetry which is handy. He continues to be terrified of his Irish teacher which is a bit of a problem. For a child who often appears absolutely indifferent to outer expectations and the views of others, he can get quite stressed and worried about school work and whether he has properly understood the teachers’ instructions. But generally, he seems on top of things. I would like him to do the academic course his brother and sister have done in the summer which they both say he would really enjoy. The entrance exam was on recently and I tried to encourage him to give it a go. “Are you crazy Mum, do an exam to spend three weeks of my summer holidays in school?” he said. I did not persuade him to give it a go. If it’s not this, it will have to be Irish college.
He is a wonderfully engaging public speaker and, even in domestic circles, when offering his opinion speaks in clear and authoritative tones. He is convincing even if he is wrong. I regard this as a great gift which will stand him in good stead but perhaps needs to be carefully deployed.
He no longer runs out to greet me when I get home from work; alas, I do miss that but I suppose it is inevitable. He continues, however, to be very good at charming me to get his way. To the chagrin of his siblings who declare it all an act, I find him utterly delightful and endlessly entertaining.
The Belgians
Apparently, still current in day to day conversations of Belgians, there is an expression indicating that this is all very well but it’s not really getting us anywhere: Tout ça ne nous rendra pas le Congo. I find this…surprising.
Awkward
My brother: There was an event in the golf club last night for members who died during the year and I went along.
Me: That was nice, was there anyone you knew there?
Him: Yes, lots of people and they said nice things about Mum. Do you remember her friend, M from up the road?
Me: Yes, she died at almost the same time as Mum.
Him: Well her son was there as well and I was talking to him.
Me: Oh I don’t know the sons at all, they were all a good bit older than us.
Him: Did you tell me one of them died?
Me: No, I never heard that.
Him: Well, somebody told me that.
Me: I’m sure I’d have heard. I don’t think any of them died.
Him: Well, yes, I know that now.
Partying
Last weekend, Mr. Waffle and I were invited to not one but two parties on Saturday night. As the venues were nearby, we managed to get to both.
Yesterday we were invited to two 50th birthday parties at opposite ends of Dublin so I went to my friend’s party and Mr. Waffle went to his friend’s party. I realised on the way in that it’s the first time in years that I have been to a non-work event on my own. However, the house was heaving with friends and acquaintances so all was well. The birthday girl’s parents – who are in great shape – were there. A group of us were reminiscing with her father about how we all went to visit them on Achill island in our early 20s. Of course, we felt we were all grown up but, I realised talking to her father, a lovely man, how he and her mother must have basically thought we were children. An impression not dispelled by me reminding my friend how she had been able to do cartwheels on the sand, a feat of which none of us is now capable, sadly.
I suppose 50th birthdays are a time for reminiscing. I recalled my friend coming out to Brussels to help me plan for my 30th birthday and guiding my faltering footsteps to a local DIY shop saying firmly, “What you need is a good toolbox.” Good advice and still useful after all these years. Frankly, I doubt that the fancy candles I have given her will be at all as welcome in the long run.
I suppose that’s it on the party front for the next 12 months now. Sigh.
