I am just about to leave my parents’ house to get the train back to Dublin. My poor husband and children have not seen me all weekend. My mother is sad to see me go – my father is too, in his own way, I’m sure though I suspect it is a mild relief that no one will leave the doors open once I go. I hardly saw my beloved aunt who lives next door to my parents. I did not get to tidy out my old room (task list from 1993) or sort out my poor sister’s broken car window. And I have work papers in my bag that I will have to read on the train because staying late at work is a luxury I no longer enjoy. Sometimes it feels like there just isn’t enough of me to go around.
Ireland
Home Alone
I am not quite sure how I managed to swing this but I am in Cork with my parents and without my children. Mr. Waffle is at home minding the fort with the aid of the Dublin relatives. I found a reference to my father-in-law’s company on a techie site and sent him the link asking whether he recognised the company and he replied:
“Some fly-by-night outfit: however, one of their founding members is with a hot new start-up, providing new concepts in grand-fathering, child avoidance for stressed parents, etc.
A sure-fire winner-invest all you’ve got, even putting off the garden shed project.”
I hope that this doesn’t mean part of the crack baby sitting team is tiring.
This morning I did not get up until TEN O’CLOCK. Imagine that. I went into the Crawford Gallery and saw a very interesting, and very beautiful exhibition of 17th and early 18th century Irish portraits and had some deep thoughts about Irish identity and how it is intertwined with that of our larger neighbour but they have seeped out of my head in the course of the day. Many of the portraits had detailed descriptions, some of which assumed a knowledge of 17th century Irish affairs which, in my case, at least, was not warranted. The syntax was also occasionally mangled. The whole effect was enlightening just not, perhaps, as enlightening as the curator might have hoped. I remain confused about how Wentworth died and why his daughter’s marriage might have made matters better for him. Particularly since he was dead. Perhaps I need to go back and have another look.
On returning home, I noted that my sister’s car which was parked outside my parents’ house had had its rear window smashed in. The guards came (my, aren’t they getting younger?), sympathised, identified the problem as someone “running the car” pointing to the large footprints on the bonnet and roof. A whole new world of vandalism. I asked them whether my sister would be getting a letter from them asking whether she, as a victim of crime, needed counselling to come to terms with her experience as Mr. Waffle had when he had reported his bike as stolen. They snorted and said, “probably”. I feel they may not be completely on message about the standard letters which issue to the victims of crime.
Then, I went out in the rain and taped on a black plastic bag. I left a doleful message on my sister’s voicemail which I am sure made her morning in Chicago (where she is on holidays, try to keep up).
Then, my mother and I went out for an elaborate and expensive afternoon tea and did some mild shopping. It was all very pleasant aside from the nagging guilt about Mr. Waffle at home minding the children. Even with team in-law fully deployed – the boys are sleeping over with their cousins tonight – two days full time sole parenting while also very busy working is trying. I feel his domestic credit is in the stratosphere.
Tomorrow, I will be buying lottery tickets
This week:
The revenue finally admitted that, yes, we were right about our tax affairs and refunded two large cheques;
While going through cards I had kept (wedding, christenings, birthday) for many years but finally decided to throw out due to space restrictions, a crisp €50 note floated out of a christening card for the Princess where it had been waiting for 7 years to surprise us (belated thanks, Aunty Pat);
At work, a measure which I had strenuously resisted when initially decided upon in the summer and which, despite my objections, I have had to work hard on intermittantly ever since, has been dumped;
An emergency job which had to be finished for noon tomorrow and threatened to ruin many evenings this week, turned out not to be an emergency, allowing breathing space and bedtime stories;
A report which I wrote, and which has languished for an ominous length of time on the desk of the capo di tutti capi, has been approved for issue without amendment;
The man from the cable company rang up saying he had to put a cable underground through the overgrown side passage. I sighed mildly at the inconvenience and he said, there’s no point haggling, my best offer is free cable tv and internet for life. Really. I’m going to ask him to put that in writing.
Would you care to touch the hem of my garment?
The Night of the Big Wind
The Princess is doing a project on hurricanes in school. Her father and I told her about the Irish hurricane; probably the only hurricane which has been used to test pension entitlements. I read her out the entry on the “big wind” from the Oxford Companion to Irish History:
“big wind”, the storm which ravaged Ireland, particularly the west, north and midlands, on the night of Sunday, 6 January 1839. High winds uprooted trees, destroyed buildings, killed livestock and, in built-up areas, spread fires. Although one newspaper put total deaths at 300 or more, a suvey of contemporary reports has found about 90 documented fatalities, 37 of them at sea. When old-age pensions were introduced in 1909 memories of the storm were one of the tests used to identify persons over 70.
Herself was spectacularly uninterested in this piece of national memory but the “big wind” looms large in the national imagination, you know, as kick-starting a series of disasters: first the big wind, then the famine, then mass emigration, then the failed 1848 uprising, then the sacrifice of our first born children to the subordinated bond holders and so on. You too may be uninterested in the “big wind” especially if you live in a country that has had a hurricane since 1839 but today is day 9 of Nablopomo and I am finding it a bit difficult to think of anything to post. Never mind, only 21 days to go.
In other news, today my sister is celebrating her birthday in Hawaii. I am not envious. Personally, I find November rain invigorating. Particularly on a bicycle.
Recession, what recession?
On a rainy Monday in November, I rang the Winding Stair to book a table for 3 for dinner. We’re fully booked but maybe we can squeeze in your group at 6 or 9.30? In the end we went to FXB’s and got the last table. If the IMF is on the doorstep, no one’s told the punters.
Compare and Contrast
I booked tickets for the national concert hall recently and a nice man answered the phone immediately, talked me through my options, I booked my tickets and they were sent out by post.
Today I wanted to book tickets for a show in the Olympia Theatre. The Olympia has decided to dispense with the person in the foyer who takes bookings and has instead entered into a deal with Satan. Sorry, ticketmaster. So I telephoned ticketmaster and made my way through the poorly organised menu – am I going to a particular location, family event or a concert? no, a play but there’s no button to press for that, go for location and know that this is going to end in tears but nevertheless say Olympia theatre clearly into the phone. I then waited 15 minutes until a man from the North of England came onto the phone to take my booking. A perfectly nice man, I hasten to add, and it’s hardly his fault that by the time his customers come on the line they are always a bit peeved after the long wait time. But he’s not exactly a local who knows the layout of the theatre, is he? In any event, the wretched thing was booked out.
There must be a moral here somewhere.
