With one thing and another, my father is often called upon to visit hospitals. The Bons Secours hospital presents particular difficulties, as he pointed out to me, because when he phones for a taxi to go to out patients, he gives the name the full French flourish and the dispatcher is baffled and then goes, “Oh you mean the BONS!”
Cork
Heaven is a Place on Earth
I take the children to Cork for the weekend from time to time. During these weekends away from their father – who is all virtue – I tend to give up on the healthy eating/playing in the park regime which we try to achieve in Dublin. As a result their time in Cork is spent eating pizza, watching television and playing on the iPad and the x-box. It’s quite relaxing for me too but, of course, my enjoyment is undercut by a steady pulse of guilt, made no better by the following happy confidence from my youngest child when we last visited: “I love Cork because there aren’t so much [sic] rules.” “How do you mean Michael?” I asked. “When we started playing the x-box it was bright but now it is dark.”
Also, are you singing that Belinda Carlisle number?
Sweet Cork of Thee
With one thing and another, I have been in Cork quite a bit recently. Does where you are from become more loved when you move away? Cork is delightful in the Spring (though showery). The city centre is small but not too small. Last time I was there a busker was belting out Spancil Hill in front of the Crawford and the sun was shining and people were milling about and it was lively and familiar.
I was desperate to get out of Cork and see the world when I qualified. I left in 1993 and haven’t lived in Cork for any significant length of time since. When we came back to Ireland from Brussels, Mr. Waffle suggested that we might consider moving to Cork. I did consider it but it didn’t suit for a range of reasons (including that neither of us had a job there) and I was ambivalent about living in Cork again. It’s small and all my friends had left. If I go to Cork now, there is no one I know beyond my immediate family. So, my homesickness is artificial and I think living there would be difficult. When I had the chance, I turned it down. But yet, it is a lovely place and I miss it.
Births, Marriages, Deaths
I was in Cork recently for my mother’s birthday. I was collected from the station and promptly sent to mass with my mother for a local priest’s month’s mind.
I hadn’t even known that Fr. C was dead. At the mass (cast of thousands, well 10 priests on the altar) there was a long and interesting sermon about his life which in no respect chimed with what I knew of him. Until I was 11, every evening in term time, my parents would eat with Fr. C while my siblings and I were fed elsewhere. My parents therefore knew him very well and they were fond of him. I only met him occasionally and, as this was the 1970s when adults were not obliged to show interest in children unless they actually were interested (possibly a better system than that which currently applies where everyone has to be fascinated by children all the time), he paid me no great attention.
I was a bit surprised when he turned up on the altar at my wedding to concelebrate the mass with my father’s cousin (who was the priest we had asked to come). On the day, Mr. Waffle raised his eyebrow – who was that – and I shrugged whispering, “Family friend, rather dour.” And then Fr. C christened all my children for me. He was as gruff as ever and I can’t say that I ever had a conversation of any length with him but I came to expect his lined, frowning face at important religious rites. I was surprised to hear the priest at the month’s mind refer to him jovially as Canon Mike and a “charismatic priest”. I can tell you, he was never Canon Mike to me and the charisma, if any, was in trace quantities as far as I was concerned.
Still, I do feel that perhaps, from his now lofty perch in heaven (gruff, but holy, you know) he may just, unexpectedly, keep an eye out for my family here. I stopped and said a quick prayer at his grave on Sunday, just in case.
Disappointment
My mother’s first job out of college was with Clark’s shoes in England. Not quite sure why they needed a chemist but they did and she has fond memories of them. She also wear tested all of their women’s size 7 shoes which was an added bonus and meant she had the most extensive shoe wardrobe of anyone really.
When we were growing up we always got our shoes from Clark’s on the North Main Street (now defunct – the shop not the street). Since coming back to live in Ireland, I have bought all the children’s shoes in Clark’s. It’s a little bit dearer but they measure the children’s feet, I have my mother’s assurance as to the quality of the workmanship (admittedly dating from the 1960s) and they have actually held up pretty well, until now.
I bought Michael a pair of shoes at the start of December and last week he pointed out that the stitching at the top had come undone and there was a big hole. Mr. Waffle brought them back to Clark’s and asked for a replacement pair. The shop said that policy was only to refund 3/4 of the price after 28 days. That doesn’t strike me as very long. I would have said that a pair of shoes that lasts only just over two months are not of merchantable quality. Mr. Waffle made this point. They said he could ring England. He did. The English lady said that she would need to see them and he would have to post them to her. We settled for getting another pair at a quarter of the price of the damaged pair. But I am not pleased. And my mood was not improved by the woman in the shop saying to the children, “Gosh, I remember you guys coming in every year, you’ve grown so much.”
The Princess is delighted, her next pair of shoes will be those Converse runners she covets. She’ll have to learn how to tie laces first though.
Project Work
The boys were recently assigned their first school project. Each child had to pick an Irish county to write about. Daniel, still fascinated by the Battle of the Boyne, picked Meath. He did some research on his chosen county. He wrote about the Hill of Tara and the stone of destiny at the top.
“You know,” I said, “I’ve never been up the Hill of Tara, we should go this weekend.” Whereupon the Princess moaned with acute, though deplorable, insight, “Don’t make us, it will be a long walk up a hill in the rain and when we get there the stone will be titchy.” I know that this is true but I am still going to make them do it; if only the weather would improve just a little bit. I have a new Portuguese colleague at work and she is in daily astonishment at the awful weather and refuses to believe that it could be worse in Cork but it is. I digress.
Michael meanwhile chose to do his project on Cork. “Why did you choose Cork?” I asked beaming with pride. “Because there was nothing else left and I knew you would know lots about it.” My pragmatic though not notably tactful child. One of the things he stuck to the chart was a picture of UCC the university in Cork with which my family has a long association. On the front he had written, “Lift the flap to find a fact.” Underneath was written “This is a college, it is called DCU.” [Spelling corrected for your benefit. Michael’s spelling continues to be idiosyncratic.] DCU is a local university in Dublin. As I squealed in horror, a part of me took off my hat to DCU’s outreach programme which is manifestly building excellent brand recognition among local school children.
That is all. The projects have now been submitted and are gracing the wall of 2nd class.
