My husband sent me this, because he loves me:
Regular readers will recall that I mentioned last weekend that Monday night shopping was a “What’s Hot” item suggested by Irish Times’ journalists. Above is proof of this unlikely fact.
Ireland
Have you seen this woman?
A couple of months ago, I started to notice this woman in house and flat windows.
Now, I see her everywhere.
Does somebody sell these statuettes to very willing buyers?
Does the city council – the main landlord locally – buy them in bulk and put them in the houses it rents out? Your thoughts on this mildly vexing question would be welcome.
Finally
I am indebted to my husband for the information below:
Cork city FG councillor Laura McGonigle suggests a “Cork passport”
She says
“Corkonians’ unique attachment and devotion to their county is known country and world wide. The Certificate of Irish Heritage is a great initiative, and creates great value and a bond with our people wherever they live, but why not take this further with a Cork Heritage cert or “Cork passportâ€.
(etc etc)”
And here’s a mock-up of the design.
Cork
Last weekend my kind sister and parents minded the children while Mr. Waffle and I skipped off to Kinsale. As a former local, I’ve never really been a tourist in this part of the world before. It’s lovely, I can tell you.
We stayed in a place called the Glebe House [query for Protestants – what’s the difference between a Glebe, a Vicarage, a Rectory and a Manse?] and it was delightful – roaring fires; Victorian furniture; pleasant views; and a charming hostess.
On Saturday morning we took the Scilly walk out to Charles Fort.
I had, to my intense chagrin, left my heritage card in the car but the nice woman from the OPW looked in her book and found the entry showing where my sister had bought the card [a present] and let us in free. €8 saved – hurrah [insert your own cliché about the recession here]. Charles Fort has been tarted up enormously since I last visited – probably about 20 years ago – and it looked very cared for. The OPW staff gave an interesting tour and were very knowledgeable about the site. The sun was shining; the weather was beautiful could it get any better?
Oh yes, it could. A local collective was having a sale of crafty things; including expensive, but very delicate and beautiful batik pictures. I bought Christmas tree ornaments and soap from the lady who makes it. She was cutting her own ribbons while I was talking to her – the handmade clearly covers all angles. And then we went for late lunch in here; a restaurant I have been curious about for some time. It was nice and very, very busy – still heaving at 4 when we left but not as spectacular as local opinion had led me to believe. Then we went our separate ways for a bit. I got to go around the town which is pretty, though familiar, and particularly rich in what Mr. Waffle disparagingly calls “upmarket tourist tat”. In a sweet shop, there was a young man leaning on the counter speaking to the young woman who was serving in a strong local rural accent. “I was up fixing your father’s rooter last night,” he said. “What kind of agricultural implement is that?” I wondered to myself. Then the young man added, “He’s delighted with the new netbook, isn’t he?” Ah, that kind of router. My favourite shop is Kinsale Silver where I almost always find something but there are lots of great, small, appealing shops and, if only I were a little more organised, my Christmas shopping would now be complete.
On Sunday before being reunited with our children we went for a walk on Garretstown beach and it was so warm that we had to take off our coats. I think we must have got one of the best weekends of the year. As we hopped into the car, I called my sister to tell her that we were on our way, “Will you be glad to see us?” I asked the babysitter in chief. She considered for a moment, “I’ll be glad to see you leave,” she offered. It’s a good job that we had such a wonderful time because I can’t see our babysitter in chief being ready to take on another weekend of sunshine and laughter with small children immediately.
What I did on Thursday
On Wednesday, I took herself to Cork on the train to stay with my parents for a couple of days.
On Thursday, I had a particularly full day as follows:
01.00: Sister arrives into her bedroom (where I am spending the night in Cork), turns on light, rubs in hand cream, chats.
01.00-02.00: Drunken students sing rebel tunes on the street, apparently directly under my sister’s bedroom window.
02.30 – 04.00: The Princess comes into the bedroom at 5 minute intervals to ask whether it is morning yet.
05.00: I get up to get the train back to Dublin.
06.15: Get on the train.
08.45: Arrive in Dublin in driving rain (only comfort – surely this means tonight’s tennis match will be cancelled).
08.45-09.00: Queue in rain for Luas ticket behind a number of people who cannot use the machine. In the end, cannot forebear from offering advice as I have already missed two trams.
09.15 – 18.00: Work (including lunch meeting, the pain).
18.00 – 20.30: Cycle home, bond with boys, put them to bed, do grocery shopping online, calculate and print out childminder’s payslip and, conclude, alas, that it has cleared up enough to play tennis.
20.30 – 22.00: Cycle up to tennis club. Play tennis. Lose.
22.20: Arrive home. Realise that I have yet to pack for my weekend in Cork – boys are to join their sister in my parents’ house, Mr. Waffle and I are to flee the coop. Hurrah. Further realise that I will need to schedule a post for NaBloPoMo.
23.10: Write post.
There’s always one
The clocks went back on Sunday. We forgot. We arrived for 11.30 mass at what we thought was 11.45 (punctual as ever). It was in fact 10.45 and the priest was finishing 10.00 mass. As we walked through the door, he said, “The mass is ended, go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” Daniel, who had been the cause of our lateness, was very taken aback. He had been told that, if he hurried, he would not miss the Sunday school thing in the sacristy. Now, mass had ended. He started to howl at the top of his voice (a very loud place), “Mass is ended, oh no, mass is ended.” You might have thought that fellow worshippers would have rejoiced at this evidence of youthful enthusiasm, but no.
