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Dublin
I See Dead People
The Town Mouse delegation, being tourists, had been to visit the National Museum and spoke animatedly, if not enthusiastically, about the bog bodies. I think the words TM used were, “Someone should give those bodies a decent burial.”
Not having set foot inside the door of the National Museum since 2008, I decided it was time to bring the children to investigate. I keyed them up the night before, I made popcorn and gave it to them sitting on steps adjacent to the Masonic Hall before going in so that they would not be hungry. We passed through the shop safely and saw two bog bodies which were holding everyone’s interest nicely before Daniel announced that he needed to go to the toilet. This inevitably involved passing the cafe and after that, all was doom and gloom. Michael wept for crisps and did not stop until we got back to the car. The nice Garda who tried to cheer him up was treated with tears for her pains. The Princess ran off twice in a huff.
Culture is very tiring, I find.
The Fate of the Number 10 Bus
Since there seems to be some mild interest in the full page article in an allegedly national daily on the renaming of a local bus route in Dublin, here it is.
Looking on Twitter the other night when I should have been in bed, I see that on Thursday, September 30, Fiona McCann, Irish Times Journalist tweeted as follows:
RT @urchinette Urgently need to talk to people who regularly travel – or used to – on Number 10 bus on Dublin. Please RT, Dublin people!
Who pray is @urchinette? To be fair, she, at least, that this is something only likely to be of interest to Dubliners.
Ah well, here she is, the author of the article:
Twitter people who talked to me about the Number 10 bus – you are brilliant. The piece is in today’s Irish Times: http://bit.ly/9Dpv8O
Lads, is this journalism, really? I don’t mean to be unfair to the author and I suppose it’s a fluffy lifestyle piece that she was asked to do but still and all is it for the likes of this that I fork our my €2 (incl. VAT) of a Saturday morning?
Brazen it out
Colleague: So, despite everything I said, they have moved to this dreadfully rough part of Dublin.
Me (slightly coldly): Actually, that’s around the corner from me.
Her (enthusiastically): Well then, you know how bad it is.
Weekend Round-up
The Princess and I went to the National Gallery on Saturday morning to inspect the Baroque rooms. She has developed an enormous interest in Greek mythology thanks to the Percy Jackson books and I thought we’d have a look at some paintings of Greek gods. Unfortunately, this outing of supreme middle class smugness was spoilt by the fact that they are repairing the roof in that wing. So, instead of looking at art we went up and down in the glass lift several times. When we emerged there were two patient English tourists waiting outside, one of whom was Emma Thompson. Being Irish, I pretended not to notice. Being 7, the Princess didn’t notice but I thought you ought to be told.
On Saturday afternoon we walked in the rain in the Phoenix Park. I seethed that Saturday’s Irish Times, allegedly a national paper, devoted a full page to the discontinuation of a Dublin bus route (the number 10, if you’re asking, in fact, its functions will be taken over by the 46A so it was really more a change of name of a Dublin bus route). That was fun for everyone, as you can imagine.
Saturday evening saw us leaving the children in the hands of an older woman who had moved to Ireland to be near her daughter. For 20 years, she worked for a surgeon in Cannes and she lovingly described his spotless operating theatre. I can’t help feeling she must have been appalled at our bathroom. Sigh. We went out and had dinner in a place specialising in Irish beer. Mr. Waffle tried O’Hara’s on the basis that I used to regularly lunch with one of the co-owners who worked in Brussels at the same time as me. I tried to identify him to Mr. Waffle. “You must remember him,” I said. “He worked in the same office as that fellow whose parents live around the corner from my parents in Cork.” To which, Mr Waffle replied, “This country is far too small, isn’t it?”
On Sunday afternoon, Mr. Waffle had to work but the children and I went out to the parents-in-law and, on the assurance of my mother-in-law that their neighbours had said to help ourselves, hopped over the garden wall and stripped the neighbours’ raspberry canes. This morning we had homemade jam for breakfast made from raspberries which were, only yesterday, basking in the South Co. Dublin sunshine. Oh the unbearable smugness of being.
Last night, I cycled into town to go on a blind date. Town Mouse was visiting and had suggested that we might meet. I’ve only ever met one person through the internet before and so this is all a bit new to me. It is a very odd relationship when you know a lot about what a person chooses to put on his or her blog and not a lot about anything else. Like say, her partner, who is a very distant background presence on the blog but, you know, much more rounded when you actually meet him over dinner. There was so much to talk about and I feel that I didn’t get even half of it in. I feel a bit sad now, that, realistically, unless they start making a habit of coming to Ireland, I will never really know TM and her young man. Still, maybe I will go and visit her and insist on inspecting her vegetable garden which fills me with envy. Though she did cast a pall over my evening by mentioning that she, like my children, was a picky eater when young and now she eats most things “except vegetables beginning with C”. We’re doomed.
Very Tiring
On Friday, Mr. Waffle and I went for a walk in Glendalough. All very pleasant.
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We arrived home and whisked the children off to a freebie cinema showing of “The Red Balloon” which won some prize in Cannes in 1956. It was mildly endearing but the children didn’t think much of it. What was startling was how dirty and run down Paris looked in 1956. For a while I thought it was Brussels but then I saw the Eiffel Tower looming through the smog. Further culture night activities included a visit to a quite spectacularly disgusting take away in Temple Bar and an obligatory visit to “The Ark” a slightly worthy cultural centre for children. The best bit was being out with the children at night: looking at the moon; the river lit up; and all the grown-up slightly drunk people. Weird for everyone.
On Saturday we went to the GAA, dropped the Princess to a birthday party, took delivery of a bouncy castle and went to IKEA.
This morning we realised that we had left the camera in Glendalough so, to ensure that our comprehensive catalogue of our children’s birthday parties remained complete, Mr. Waffle drove off and fetched it. In the interim, the children and I were at mass. Some woman in West Cork had asked that people boycott mass to support the ordination of women. While, unsurprisingly, I am in favour of the ordination of women, I’m not convinced that boycotting mass is the answer. Firstly, I think there’s no evidence that anyone would notice. The archbishop appeared at mass – mass therefore ran forever. He gave an erudite sermon managing to bring in references to Dante and the depiction of Lazarus and Dives in medieval art. He didn’t touch on the ordination of women though.
There was a very eclectic selection of music varying from some African number (really beautiful) to a local soprano (medium) and the regular choir of pre-teens accompanied by a guitar (achingly dreadful). While all this was going on, the children had been off in some room behind the altar at the children’s liturgy where they were free to colour and speak loudly. Daniel and Michael arrived back with two pictures. “What’s this?” I asked. “That’s Lazarus outside the gate,” Michael explained. “And what’s this?” I asked. “That’s the remote for the electronic gate and that’s the surveillance camera.”
In conversation with herself:
Me: What did you do today while you were with the ladies behind the altar?
Her: About Lazarus and Dives. Dives is mean and won’t give any food to Lazarus and in the end when they die, Lazarus is in Heaven and Dives is in the other place.
Me: Hell, you mean.
Her: You can’t say Hell, especially not in a church.
Ah, the post Vatican II world.
And finally, as we were about to leave, I asked her “Would you like to shake hands with the archbishop?” “Will he have lollipops?” she asked. I said that I thought not and we left it.
This afternoon was the boys’ party and in many ways it was a huge success.
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Unfortunately, the strain of the week began to show and the Princess was fiendishly awful. In any event, the boys had a terrific time and, unlike their mother, were indifferent to their sister’s behaviour. So all was broadly well. Their uncle and grandparents kindly came around to assist with crowd control. They got mountains of presents, the clear winner being (and I am sorry if you are a donor and this causes you pain) the hilarious Kung Zhu Battle Hamsters. These are fighting hamsters and were clearly inspired by someone who had an alarming experience with hamsters at an impressionable age. In fact, when my sister-in-law was 8 she woke up one morning to find one of her hamsters dead and the other, blood spattered, devouring the corpse; so, I suppose, experience of battle hamsters may be more extensive than I imagine. Aaanyhow, it all passed off peacefully. Very touchingly, a woman who lives around the corner called round as we were prodding the troops up the stairs to bed with cakes for the boys. I had met her on the street earlier in the day and mentioned it was the boys’ birthday tomorrow and she had decided that they should have more cake. How delightful.
And now it is over for 12 months. Tomorrow is their actual birthday and then I will have two five year olds.
