I used to love the Dublin Bikes. So handy, so clever, but I’ve gone off it. Today at lunch time I tried to park my bike on Chatham Street (full) Molesworth Street (full), then on to Nassau Street (full), around the corner to Merrion Square (closed for St. Patrick’s weekend fair) and finally berthed my steed on Stephen’s Green (two places). 15 minutes late for luncheon engagement. The weather has improved, I think I will be taking my own bike out of its winter retirement; I can always find a parking spot for it.
Ireland
Happy Birthday to Me
I am 41 today. As I have been exploring in recent posts, I am feeling my age.
I was in a school last week and, visiting a classroom, the principal asked whether any of the children had any questions for the visitors. The principal pointed to an enthusiastic hand waving child. The child looked at me and said “I want to ask that lady a question.” I smiled in encouragement, “What would you like to ask?” “How old are YOU?” “Why thank you for asking, I’ll be 41 next week, how old are you?” “Six.”
Later in the yard, I saw an older child looking after a younger child who had cut his knee. “Shouldn’t a teacher be doing that?” I asked the principal. “That IS a teacher,” he replied.
Meanwhile, at home Mr. Waffle had the boiler checked. The immediate consequence of this was that the heating wouldn’t work that evening. We called the boiler checking man and Lloyd (really, Lloyd?) left his partner and family and came immediately to our aid. I opened the door to a young person not entirely unlike the child in “Up”. “Hello,” he said, “I’m Lloyd.” “Hello,” I thought “you’re 12, are you allowed to fix our boiler?” Apparently, he left school six years ago. Even if he left school early, he must be at least 22. Is this what 22 year olds look like?
My mother, however, has not been concentrating. “I couldn’t find a card to send you, cards for 40th birthdays are all dreadfully vulgar.” “Mum, I will be 41!” I said. “Will you really?” she replied. You would think that she, of all people, might remember.
Outraged etc.
The Princess has been singing “Ireland’s Call” around the house. This is the song which is played when the Irish rugby team takes to the field. As our rugby team is an all-island affair, both the Irish national anthem and God Save the Queen were not allowed for fear of offence. “Ireland’s Call” is an unhappy compromise. Herself learnt it at school – ours is not a rugby household. So, with St. Patrick’s Day approaching and in the middle of seachtain na Gaeilge (technically caicÃs na Gaeilge but inflation is everywhere) there was the anodyne “Ireland’s Call” ringing in my ears. “Do you not know the Irish national anthem?” I asked her. No, apparently not. “But it’s in Irish, you go to an Irish language school and they teach you a poppy meaningless rugby song in ENGLISH and they don’t teach you our national anthem in Irish?” I squeaked. She was gone before I’d finished, singing happily to herself “Come the day. And come the hour. Come the power and the glory. We have come to answer. Our country’s call..” I trust that that Amhrán na bhFiann’s days aren’t numbered.
Meet the Neighbours
I was at a residents’ dinner recently and I was sitting beside a charming elderly lady. She had an Italian surname and I asked her about it. Her mother had emigrated from Italy when she, the mother, was a little girl (about 100 years ago) and her father had emigrated from Italy to Ireland when he was 17 and married her mother. Then she herself had married an Italian boy and brought him home with her. What’s more, she has four children and three of them have married Italians. The fourth married a Quebecois, for variety I suppose. All of her grandchildren have Italian names and are busy, like proper ambitious migrants, climbing the social ladder working as lawyers, doctors and accountants.
All of her generation were in what she referred to as “the business”. On closer investigation, this turned out to be chip shops. There is a very odd phenomenon whereby the majority of chip shops in Dublin are run by Italians from Frosinone. They have an association: the Irish Traditional Italian Chipper Association. Not you will appreciate, adjectives that you expect to see running together. One of our other neighbours commented that she had been to Italy and it was impossible to get chips. Given her Dublin background, she had expected the Italians to be chip specialists. All Dubliners recognise the names: Cafolla, Morelli, Fusciardi Borza, Macari (though my neighbour doesn’t think much of the last two families – Johnny come latelys apparently).
She spoke about working in the shop with her husband while bringing up her family in the flat upstairs. She speaks Italian as do her children and grandchildren. I was a little curious about whether they spoke dialect and Italian or just the former but lacked the nerve to ask.
She was the most charming person and I wished she lived on our road. However, she has assured me that several of the residents on her road are very elderly and a house should come on the market just as we are able to afford to move. She will be watching like a hawk on our behalf.
Multi-modal
Sometimes I cycle to work; sometimes I get the bus; sometimes I drive and sometimes my husband drops me off. This is how I was able to have the following phone conversation on the bus home the other night.
Me: Where are you?
Him: On the way home.
Me: I’m running late. Could you ask the childminder to stay a bit later and take the cat up to the vet.
Him: I could take the children with me, oh no, you have the car with the child seats.
Me: I have the car? [Reflective pause] Oh feck, yes, I have the car.
That is why after bedtime, I had to take the bus back to work and rescue the car from the car park at work.
Smart Economy
Email received by my sister, who works in the cutting edge of the knowledge economy [at least I think she does, I can’t understand what she does and that’s often a sign], from one of the people who report to her:
Hi,
As you know X and I have just moved upstairs today. I am unable to see my computer screen clearly due to a lack of daylight which is straining my eyes. Can some of the blinds in the room be opened? Thanks,
[Team member]
The author of this plaintive plea is a graduate in her mid-30s. Words fail me.
