My parents’ first house was a nice, central semi-detatched Edwardian house on a hill which my father paid for in cash. I find this even more impressive now that I have a mortgage of my own. About a year after they moved in, I was born.
I have asked them which bedroom was mine and they can’t remember. I have also asked my mother what she did with me when she went back to work. “It was the summer holidays”. “I was born in March.” “Oh, so you were, I think a friend of your nana’s who lived on the Grand Parade came in to mind you.” Feckless pair.
Family
Credit crunched
I met a friend for lunch the other day. We had the following conversation:
Him: You are like Kerry Katona.
Me (feeling a bit like an elderly, out of touch member of the judiciary): Who the hell is Kerry Katona?
Him (sensing my concerns): Formerly part of a popular beat combo known as “Atomic Kittenâ€, m’lud.
Me: Oh yeah, yeah, yeah. [Pensive pause] Why am I like Kerry Katona?
Him: She’s very rough.
Me (coldly): Your point?
Him: I think her mother was a junkie.
Me (very coldly): Your point?
Him: She’s just been declared bankrupt but right up to the moment she ran out of money she kept spending like there was no tomorrow.
Me: Yes, I am just like Kerry Katona.
I am cross with the world’s bankers. For the next couple of years we had expected to be poor as one of us is undertaking a brave new venture in the world of work. And, unfortunately, brave new ventures are often associated with a dip in earnings. Furthermore, also unfortunately, the one undertaking the brave new venture is the one who previously made most of our money. However, we will be poorer than we had anticipated as, alas, our savings from our days of relative affluence have now disappeared in the crash (who, no really, who could have predicted that the greatest economic crash since 1929 would happen on the one occasion we actually had money in the stock market?). We will be living on baked beans for the next two years. A particular pity since none of us is very fond of baked beans.
My lovely aunt who is in Dublin for a couple of days has decided to outwit the bankers by spending all her money now. She took my brother and me to dinner last night at Guilbaud’s which pretty much did the job. It made a very pleasant change from baked beans.
You know the way we all put our faith in the market economy instead of religion? Is anyone else feeling that this was all a bit of a mistake in retrospect? Just curious.
Utter mortification
We live near an institution and, on Sunday, they have a 20 minute mass in the chapel there. This is not something to be sneezed at. Over the past three Sundays, I have attended with one or two of my children but not all three. Last Sunday, we took them all.
We arrived late which meant that we only had 15 minutes to get through. The small congregation consists entirely of older adults who all know each other.
The Princess was a disgrace. She stamped her foot, she jumped up and down on the knee rest. She clambered under the pew. People (including me) glared at her. Her father took her out. She came back and swung off the seat.  Her brothers, doubtless inspired by their sister, began to climb under seats. Their father took the lot of them out but, alas, the boys could be heard, all too audibly, wailing for their mother. They all came back. By this point the boys were covered in snot as they both have colds and their feckless parents had forgotten to bring tissues. Their sleeves were quite damp and slimy and their faces looked like they were suffering from some alarming skin disease. I offered it all up for the souls in purgatory but it nearly killed me.
When we came out, the small congregation was gathered outside and offered the usual consolatory noises which polite people do when other people’s children have behaved appallingly though one man asked, jestingly, whether I had ever heard of Supernanny. I can only say that he was justified in asking.
We hung around outside as the congregation dispersed and upbraided the children who were somewhat chastened. In due course, the priest and an acolyte arrived and we duly apologised for our children’s behaviour and he said kind words about how it was lovely to see young people in the congregation etc. etc. (words which I cannot believe to be true, at least not these particular young people on this particular morning. When I was a baby, there was a priest in Cork who used to roar “get that child out of here”, if there was any infant noise at his very crowded mass and, while this approach was perhaps a little brutal, I can see that it has merit).
We chatted to the priest and explained that we had just moved into the terrace across the road (not I thought to myself that we will ever see you again as that would be too hideously embarrassing and I am never, never going to bring these children to this church again). “Oh really,” he said smiling, “I’m in number 7.”Â
Status Update
Pros
We have our health.
As of last Wednesday we are no longer commuting hours to the city centre from the delightful but distant suburb where my parents-in-law kindly had us stay for 6 weeks (that would be four weeks longer than any of us thought it would be). On the way in there is a level crossing and for many years it has featured in traffic reports as a Dublin landmark and I always thought it was a poor and unremarkable landmark. That was before I realised that every commuter from South County Dublin spent an hour morning and evening crawling past it. Also I spent a number of hours before a scrolling sign on a hotel telling me that bookings were now “been” taken for Christmas. These things grate. Especially if you have to listen to Charlie and Lola on endless repeat while chugging along. Does anyone else thing that Lola needs something done about her adenoids?
The children all like school. Our worries about the Princess going to school in Irish were completely unnecessary. She is picking it up extraordinarily quickly. It is quite amazing to watch. Also, the structured, assigned seat, looking at the blackboard schooling we favour in Ireland seems to really suit her and she is happy. The boys have settled well into Montessori school and we love their teacher. They also seem fond of her.
Cons
Our house is tiny. We have far too much furniture and quite a lot of it is still in storage. Despite 6 weeks and 20,000 euros worth of work, it looks worse than it did before we started. For this, I blame Eamon the electrician who left the place looking like Swiss cheese.
No internet (this comes from an internet cafe), no telephone.
I started work today. I am not particularly enthusiastic about this job but it will pay some of the bills. My reception this morning has not made me more enthusiastic.
My bicycle was stolen over the weekend.
A story of jelly shoes
Sunday, 17 August
Our afternoon flight was slightly delayed with 3 changes of gate. The parents-in-law made themselves by far the most unpopular people on the plane by saving us seats together. I vowed never to fly Ryanair again. Again. The flight was followed by a three hour drive from Trapani airport to our destination. We arrived at midnight and the Princess, setting a pattern for the week, was up and bright and breezy.
Monday, August 18
After lunch I was severely taken to task by the Baron (the owner of our agriturismo) for turning up late for lunch: “this is not a hotel”.   The Baron also abused my half-Sicilian sister-in-law for wasting water by letting the children play in the shower near the swimming pool, saying accusingly: you should know how precious water is in Sicily signora. Fortunately, his efforts to upset the guests were consistently undermined by his staff who were charming and our first point of contact.
Tuesday, August 19
We made the distressing discovery that the beaches in this part of the world are stony as we hobbled to the sea shore and into the water. There was some complaining by the junior members of the party as they leapt from hot stone to sharp pebble. Though, mercifully, the Sicilians were having a dreadful summer and the temperature never went above 30 degrees. Daniel was delighted to see sunshine again and having spent the previous three weeks announcing every day that it was raining again was equally surprised to see that in Sicily every day was sunny again.
The boys were fascinated by Italian which they identified as not French and not English. They had already been astounded to see the priest at mass and staff in the supermarket in Cork speaking English (they speak in English!) though sad to discover that their favourite lady from behind the fish counter had gone (where the nice lady? still in Brussels, one assumes) but now there was a whole new baffling linguistic regime.   On our drive from our hotel sorry, not hotel, to the coast, we passed a little ruined house and I overheard the boys talking (in French) about fixing it up with the help of Bob the Builder. Daniel said seriously to Michael: “Bob, he talks in English, you know”. Despite reservations about the linguistic regime, Daniel, in particular, was delighted to be back in kissing country: everyone from customs officers to carabinieri was happy to give him a kiss when requested and there was none of this hugging business which Irish children favour and which he regards with the greatest suspicion.
That evening, the issue of how the publishing exec (Mr. Waffle’s sister and the Princess’s beloved godmother) was going to make her way from Palermo (to where she was flying on Friday night) to our agriturismo was raised. She was arriving too late for the last trains and buses and is newish to driving and, really, you don’t want to put a newish driver on the road out from Palermo airport on a Friday night. Feeling that this was the least I could do to oblige my parents-in-law, who didn’t fancy the drive and in whose house we have been residing practically forever, I happily volunteered to collect her. Mr. Waffle voiced the hope that her new boyfriend who has been inspected and approved by the entire family (except for us – to my chagrin we were still in Belgium when he visited) might prove his mettle by turning up on the flight as a surprise and driving her up to us. Let me remove any suspense now: alas, he did not.
Wednesday, August 20
Still no jelly shoes so we hobbled around the beach until we found the Sicilian relatives. My sister-in-law’s sister (are you still with me?) is a stylist whose work frequently features in the organ of record (ooh the reflected glamour and glory). Being kind as well as glamourous, she gamely trudged up and down the beach (she had the correct footware, well, obviously she did – she’s half Italian and a stylist) carrying our extensive kit from where we had left it to the family meeting point and we disported ourselves in the sea only stopping when three of our party were assailed by jellyfish. Daniel was very stoic but Michael and I were whiny. In my defence, I would say that a jellyfish sting on your bottom is particularly awkward.
That evening was stressful as we dined late (unlike the previous evening where we had a delightful early pizza and all the children ate, though the Princess did pat a cactus during the evening – why? - which restricted her movement somewhat) and Mr. Waffle failed to do my bidding on various matters. As the designated Italian speaker I was sent into the take away to order. I failed to understand them, they failed to understand me, the result was unhappy. I returned to our table in precarious form and began to cry.  Family holidays can be a little tense, you know. My mother-in-law patted my hand gently, Mr. Waffle looked anxious, my father-in-law (abandoning his hopes of sloping off from the children with his loving wife) went to stand by the door of the take away and harry the staff, my half Sicilian sister-in-law (who had just arrived) sorted out our order and said comfortingly that she too could have hissy fits (something I found very reassuring though it is not something I have witnessed with my own eyes which would be even better), Daniel said in tones of horror to anyone who would listen “My Mummy is crying“, I sniffed. It was a low point and by the time I was alone with Mr. Waffle later, I had eaten and I was tired and even I had lost interest in my grievances.
Thursday, August 21
The children refused en masse to go to the beach so we took ourselves off to the swimming pool which was perishing – who would have thought that you could be so cold in Sicily in August? We then went to look for jelly shoes which were in short supply in the local town but we got a couple of pairs, not quite the right size but half a loaf is better than no bread. Mr. Waffle went to the internet cafe to wrestle with Ryanair. To get access to the internet he had to sign several documents promising not to look at pornography or set up terrorist cells, hand over his passport (to be photocopied) and get printed details of his log on and password. Sometimes, I think it is a miracle that the Italian economy manages to struggle on at all. Doubtless Gunther Verheugen will sort it all out for them. He might want to have a go at the Chemist as well where all purchases are scanned into the computer and painstakingly copied into a lined notebook by an elderly lady and her assistant which made for a long wait before I got my hands on swim nappies.
That evening the Princess and I drove into Cefalu which is absolutely beautiful.  She was immaculately behaved. It was all very pleasant and full of jelly shoes in all manner of sizes. On our return, the kind grandparents babysat while Mr. Waffle and I went out to wait for a pizza. The elderly lady whizzing around the tables muttered something unintelligible and I eyed Mr. Waffle balefully and said that it was probably dialect because I didn’t understand it. He, mindful of the previous evening’s disaster, said nervously, “um, I think she said ‘muss warten’, you know, in German”. And warten we did for a good hour and a half. On the plus side, we met everyone on the evening passegiata, sister-in-law, brother-in-law and nonno.
Friday, August 22
We had a very successful beach expedition with our jelly shoes, hurrah.Â
It transpired that Mr. Waffle would be required at 7 that evening in the hill top village where the christening was to take place the next day. Did you know that we were in Sicily for our new quarter Italian niece’s christening and that Mr. Waffle was godfather? Well, now you do. And the priest needed to talk to him about his duties. Unfortunately, this was at precisely the time that I needed to go to Palermo to pick up the publishing exec. My father-in-law could drive Mr. Waffle to the hill top village and I could go to Palermo but that would leave grandma alone all evening with three young children which is very rough going.   Then my sister-in-law’s brother, new Uncle as he was known (try to keep up – my children were baffled, dazzled and delighted by the numbers of new uncles and cousins who kept emerging from the woodwork last week) volunteered for duty and we heaved a collective sigh of relief. New Uncle was a big hit with the children being a single man, willing to play and also quite happy to kiss the boys when requested to do so (half Italian, you see). When the Princess and I went to look at the chapel in the agriturismo that evening she was very anxious to pray for new Uncle though whether this was on his own merits or because he was bringing her beloved aunt from Palermo was unclear.
Saturday, August 23
The publishing exec had arrived and the Princess went to wake her at dawn. She came back wearing a beautiful dress purchased by her loving aunt in exotic London. After that we hardly saw the Princess as she stuck to her beloved and very tolerant aunt like a limpet. We got dressed up and drove ourselves up the winding road to the hilltop town where the christening was to be. About three quarters of the way there, Daniel got sick. We stripped him naked and, on the way into town, stopped to buy him new clothes. He looked absolutely beautiful in his smart Italian clothes but 80 euros for trousers and a shirt is considerably more than I would normally pay. Also, both he and I smelt of vomit all day. We then screeched up to the top of the town where various cugini were gathered and sprinted to the church where we were more or less on time. The publishing exec was godmother and the Princess was a little inclined to take this in bad part as the publishing exec was her godmother but she was won over by being allowed to hold her little cousin on her lap while cooing at her with her aunt.
After the christening we went for a big lunch. We were a party of 30 of whom 14 were children. It was fantastic. One of the bigger cousins was a boy of 13 who took it upon himself to entertain the 11 children under 7. Michael followed him around devotedly and when he couldn’t see him would come running up to me saying “where my big boy?”. It was lovely to see them all playing together and to have Marco separate the combatants, as appropriate. Michael disappeared at one point and after some searching was still missing. Eventually Grandad located him at the side of the swimming pool which he had reached by opening an emergency exit and travelling through very rough terrain and over several obstacles in bare feet. He was, he told us solemnly, washing his hands. We nearly had heart failure.
Near drowning incidents apart, it was very nice to feel part of a large extended Italian family and my sister-in-law was, I think, delighted with the results of her efforts to bond her Irish and her Italian family.Â
Sunday, August 24
Yesterday was our last day and the Princess awoke like a briar having spent the previous evening playing with her new Palermitana friend; Giorgia, a four year old fellow guest. The pair of them spent the evening examining the tortoises in the grounds and the Princess didn’t get to bed until 11 and, even then, only because we were going to bed ourselves and locked the door to the apartment.   She was cheered by a trip to the beach where we met all the relatives until she was stung by a jellyfish which made her crabby.
After lunch we had to say goodbye to her aunt. Alas. Then the hideous return journey: a three hour drive; a hot, sweaty airport; a long queue for check in; a long queue for security (grandparents helping to keep younger members of the party in order, reassurance from new Uncle that half the queue was people saying goodbye, delight from the children on discovering that new Uncle lived in Ireland not Sicily); a run for seats together on the plane; arrival at 11 carrying (with the assistance of the grandparents) a howling, bellowing Daniel, a tired Princess and a miserable, damp Michael the many miles from terminal D to baggage reclaim; and then an alarming queue for taxis. Finally back at 1.20 in the morning. I am really never flying Ryanair again. No really. Next year we’re going on holiday by ferry. You will be pleased to hear that we brought the jelly shoes home.
Wisdom
Me: Listen to this, there’s an interview with Deepak Chopra in the paper and he says: “In my life nothing goes wrong. When things seem to not meet my expectations, I let go of how I think things should be. It’s a matter of not having any attachment to any fixed outcome.”
Mother-in-law: I wonder has he ever lost his passport?
