Yes, ok, you thought that we’d been sold into the white slave trade by the Sicilian mafia but, as it happens, no.  I felt that I ought to update here because I rang a friend today to make arrangements for the weekend and she said “but you’re in Sicilyâ€.  I explained that I was back and she said “but I read your blog every day and you’re not backâ€.  While I am, of course, touched by her enthusiasm for this website, I feel that she should know that you can’t believe everything you read on the internet.  Pressure of work and a sick child [leading to the utterly laughable experiment which my loving spouse and I attempted yesterday and today respectively, of trying to work from home with an, again respectively, sick and recovering three year old on our hands] have kept me from telling you hair raising tales from the Sicilian hinterland but just you wait, this weekend, all will be revealed.  I know, I know, you’re on the edges of your seats out there. Look, Mum, if you’re really keen you can start with the hundreds of photos on Flickr.
Family
Sicily
Tomorrow morning we leave for a week’s holiday in Sicily.  I am looking forward to this trip with a mixture of fear and anguish tinged with a slight hint of enthusiasm.  Before we go, we have to pack. In other words, now, tonight, we should be packing.
We will need:
A buggy, two parasols and buggy board;
Two car seats;
Two travel cots;
Two strap on to table high chairs (having established on a previous visit that the island of Sicily is entirely unequipped with same – the Italians love their children and hold them in their laps, we are heartless);
Two separate baby monitor thingies (one for the boys’ room, one for the Princess’s room);
Bottles and bottle sterilising kit;
A small plastic sheet for fear the the Princess may have an accident in the hotel bed;
Enough milk, babyfood and nappies to keep us going until we can hit the shops;
Two guidebooks and three maps (speak to my husband please); and
Sun cream, mosquito spray, hats, swimming togs, clothes for the boys, clothes for the Princess, clothes for us, good clothes for all five of us (we are travelling to attend the christening of the royal cousin who, being a quarter Sicilian is claiming his birthright by being christened somewhere warm and sunny).
I fear that the plane may just not have room for us and our stuff. And I am actively, genuinely concerned that the car we have hired will not be big enough for us and all our gear.  And to add insult to injury, there are local elections coming up in Brussels.  What is the relevance of this you ask? I will tell you, it means that all the pavements are being redone to encourage us to vote for the incumbents.  We are therefore unable to use our garage and will have to trek miles to our car with our mammoth supplies and all our children at an ungodly hour of the morning.  And the forecast tomorrow is for hail.Â
And now for the enthusiasm:
The royal grandparents will be there;
The publishing exec (or babysitter number 3 as we have taken to calling her) will be there;
We will all get to see the royal cousin for the first time and see his parents doing the parenting thing (depending on their availability – they do, after all have a three month old baby of their own – they have been pencilled in as babysitters 4 and 5);
The royal cousin has a Sicilian grandfather (or babysitter 6 again, subject to availability, see previous) who has said we can use his washing machine;
The hotel is fabulous with an outdoor pool and lovely food and run by charming people with a daughter who entertained the Princess for hours last time we were there (provisionally known as babysitter number 7);
The Princess may finally be able to wear her Summer dresses outside the house because, please God, it will be sunny – mind you, this brings to mind a serious concern which is that I have no clothes and, more especially, no clothes for sunny weather (entirely unnecessary in Belgium to date this year) and no time to buy them either and I will be holidaying with my sisters-in-law (babysitters nos 3 and 4, try to keep up) who are, quite possibly, the best dressed women in Ireland and though, I don’t aspire to keep up with them, I would like to be able to appear in public with them without having Italians pointing at me and laughing;
The Italians entirely live up to their reputation as the most child friendly people on the planet (I remember being surprised when the airport security man with the gun at Palermo airport dandled the Princess and gooed enthusiastically at her) so who knows what other random and additional babysitters we may be able to identify;
Sicily is beautiful and we will be staying near the seaside town of Cefalu which is gorgeous and also, very importantly, has a beach.
Update on our return next week, please hold your breath.
Le “fancy fair†and le “rugbyâ€
On Saturday, the Princess’s school held its annual “fancy fairâ€.  I understand that this is an event that takes place in all Belgian schools towards the end of the school year.  There’s a concert, games in the yard, a bouncy castle, food and organised fun.  I was at pains to explain to anyone who would listen that although the words “fancy†and “fair†do exist in English, the combination conveys nothing to the native speaker but, alas, I was ignored except for by the Princess who said to me crossly “it’s le fonzy fayereh Mummy, you’re pronouncing it all wrongâ€.Â
All of last month, we have been importuned by the school to assemble stalls, bring food, disassemble stalls and bring more food. The Princess made a costume for a medieval maiden and had dress rehearsals in the concert hall.  Yesterday was the day of the “fonzy fayereh†and we were awoken by the sound of a thunderstorm breaking over the house.  It poured all day. The bouncy castle was more of a bouncy swimming pool.  Although the food was excellent (thereby pleasantly confirming my prejudices about the Belgians), food eaten while huddled in the bike shed of the school yard and staring at the pouring rain is just that bit less appetising than food partaken of in bright sunshine. Also, the boys’ buggy has broken. In particular, the rain cover can no longer be attached. The new buggy has been ordered but will not be available for at least two weeks (welcome to the consumer Mecca that is Belgium) so, to get tickets to purchase the food, I had to run across the yard in a gale pushing the buggy and holding the rain cover between my teeth.
Also the concert was not the success that I had hoped it might be. I went with the Princess to her dressing room to find a number of harassed staff trying to dress a number of wailing children. Â When I left her, as instructed by the harassed staff, she joined in lustily with the wailing majority. Â For her turn on stage, she was, for reasons unknown, right at the back and, therefore scarcely visible. Â I blame jealousy among the other students.
The day ended with a communal dinner which was scheduled for 6 but started at 7.30 by which time a lot of the younger participants were hyper or tetchy or, particularly appealingly, both. We managed to rock our saintly sons to sleep in their (somewhat damp) buggy but unfortunately, they were awoken almost immediately by the loud music that must obligatorily accompany organised fun of any kind (yes, I am old and bitter, is that a problem?).  On the plus side the music was that of my youth.  Princess watched in horror as her parents sang along to Simple Minds (Don’t, don’t, DON’T, don’t you forget about me.. and so on). A taster for her of what her teenage years will be like.
What with the excitement of the fonzy fayereh, Mr. Waffle missed the rugby.  He had, however, recorded it from the French telly for later viewing. We had heard the result (Munster beat Biarritz, hurrah) so I asked him whether he wanted to watch it, now that he knew the results.  “Yes†he said “it’s much better than waiting for an hour and a half for Munster to loseâ€. From my point of view, the highlight of the match was seeing an interview with Ronan O’Gara where, fresh from the fray, he speaks in French to the interviewer.  His French is strongly accented, with a Cork accent, that is, but, frankly, let those of us without sin cast the first stone etc.. Mr. Waffle and I were very impressed with his vocabulary (we love to patronise) and I pointed out to Mr. Waffle that, since he had attended the same school as my brother, his French teacher was almost certainly my brother’s best friend’s mother (try to keep up here, I am giving you an excellent insight into what it is like being from Cork) and that she would be proud. Or at least, presumably, she would have been until the interviewer asked Ronan how the Munster men were feeling and he replied “Nous sommes très, très jolis.â€
How we brought the bad weather from Ghent to Brussels
We went to Ghent this morning. It was a bright sunny morning at 8.00 and it is the last day of April, we dressed accordingly. Need I tell you that it bucketed down? Or that the Princess and I took a ride in an uncovered boat while Mr. Waffle strode the damp cobblestones with two chilled little boys? It was 7 degrees in Ghent this morning. Tomorrow is the first day of May. Global warming indeed.
In fact, it wasn’t as bad as that makes it sound. The Princess loved the boat trip. We heard about the 55 illegitimate children that Charles V left in Ghent. We saw a lot of ducks (always thrilling). The only difficulty was the woman in the front of the boat with the microphone “When will she stop TALKING, Mummy?” Mr. Waffle, as befits a man who took 3 small children to the doctor for injections while his wife was off on a “work trip”, was unfazed by the difficulty of trying to entertain seven month old twin boys in an unexpectedly cold and damp environment.
After the boat trip, we ran to the car in the pouring rain pushing our buggy cavalcade at speed over the cobblestones. Possibly in consequence, the double buggy appears to have expired. I’m trying to work in the phrase “I gallop’d, Mr. Waffle gallop’d, we gallop’d all three†into the text here, but it’s more difficult than you might imagine.
Oh and yes, it was fine in Brussels in the morning but the rain followed us back from Ghent and we spent the afternoon gazing dolefully out the rain battered windows.
Conversations with my Family
My mother: Really?
Me: Yes, that wardrobe is surprisingly narrow, I’ve measured it.
My mother: Have you considered that you may want to open it?
My brother: So I was thinking that I might come and visit.
Me: That would be lovely.
Him: When does your holiday end?
Me: In April.
Him (in tones of deep shock): My God, you’re not even protesting anymore.*
Me: I’m too tired to protest.
*You will be aware that I am on maternity leave not on holidays.
Comments
kristin
(Homepage)
on 06 February 2006 at 15:57
holiday, pah.
Locotes
on 08 February 2006 at 15:32
Free holidays are great aren’t they?*backs away slowly for fear of getting a clatter*
belgianwaffle
on 15 February 2006 at 12:50
Duck!
Nemesis the Avenger
A letter from my father:
“I was amused (not quite the right word) by your account of your troubles with people parking outside your garage today.  I remember your mother’Â’s story. She found a car parked outside the gate when she wanted to go somewhere. There had been a few similar episodes, and she lost her temper and telephoned the guards. They sent a guard to investigate.
It appeared the car was registered to a woman in mid-Cork, some distance away, and she was telephoned and told to remove the obstruction. The car was being driven by her daughter, who had business in [town], but she (the daughter) could not be found, so the registered owner had to make the trip into [our] road and remove the obstruction. Revenge, satisfaction, removal of an obstacle… all very well, if one was not acquainted with the culprit.”
