A colleague had an American friend and her family to visit. She had lived here for a number of years in the past; they were visiting for the first time. “How friendly the Irish are!” they exclaimed. She thought for a moment and replied, “Irish people are charming but they are not particularly friendly.”
Ireland
Holidays
Herself finished school last Friday. The boys and I soldiered on for Monday and Tuesday of this week. On Wednesday morning we were all on holidays (oh hurrah!) except poor Mr. Waffle who had to go in to the office.
On Wednesday, the Princess and I cycled into town at lunch time to see the Anu Productions, 1916 offering. It still needs work and they described it as a work in progress, to be fair. We might go back next year and see how it looks; we weren’t completely entranced. It is set during and just before the Easter Rising and the action takes place in the back lanes around O’Connell St which, I imagine, are, in some ways, very little changed since the Rising. The meeting place is the Dublin Tourist office. There were a couple of tourists in our group and they seemed to react much better than the Irish members of the audience to the participatory element which is a part of all of this company’s work. Still, I wonder how much they knew about 1916 and whether they were a bit baffled.
In the afternoon we had friends of the children’s around. Due to extraordinarily fine weather we were able to barbecue. The excitement. This lured everyone outdoors and all of the children played in the garden.
The next day, Thursday, it was up and out to the park,
then on to library and, after a refreshing tea with Mr. Waffle, on for our annual trip to see the mummies in St. Michan’s. I love the way the graveyard is so quiet and peaceful right in the centre of the city.
Alas, there was a rough looking bunch of people drinking at the end of the graveyard. One of the disadvantages of urban, edgy, city centre living is that your children are only too familiar with this kind of group. Mr. Waffle took them home on the tram the other day and there was an arrest where they got on and a bloody altercation with ambulance summoned where they got off. I digress.
In the afternoon, it was back on the bikes to go to the dentist – all was well, we now have plaque disclosing tablets which are a source of enormous delight.
Mr. Waffle had spent the afternoon fetching the car back from the distant suburb where it was being repaired and we greeted its return with boundless enthusiasm. We are all sick of travelling everywhere by bike (unworthy but there it it).
A man is coming next week to sand and varnish the floors. So that he can sand under the bookcases, the children and I emptied the one bookcase this morning and transported its contents (A-H) to the utility room.
He is going to do the rest himself. I can only applaud his work ethic.
Then into town to get sandals and shorts. I then made the children go to the Little Museum of Dublin. I think it’s lovely and, also, Mr. Waffle got me a season ticket for my birthday. They found it moderately entertaining. The Princess has been a couple of times already and likes it. The boys were a bit grumpy going in but seemed to quite enjoy it in the end. I saw a one armed bandit and recognised every one of the images from when I was quite small and spent my evening in pubs in West Cork in the summer (not as bad as it sounds). Looking at the fruit pieces every detail was familiar to me. I realised that one I had been a bit unsure of at age 6/7 was, in fact, a watermelon, the knowledge fitting into my brain with a satisfying mental click. I had utterly forgotten my time on the machine (2p a go, I see, good value for the grown-ups) until the moment I stood in front of it today but all of the images came back to me with startling clarity. The inside of my head is a mystery to me.
Michael with Podge and Rodge whom he would adore if I would let him watch them:
Irish Times Editor’s Desk:
Herself and Alfie Byrne contemplate St. Stephen’s Green
Ross O’Carroll-Kelly (she likes him, she reads the column faithfully ever Saturday, for Honor; Michael does not care for him):
Daniel blowing a trumpet with a model of Nelson’s Pillar in the background:
The remainder of the day was spent packing. Tomorrow we drive to Kerry. The children are filled with excitement. The weather forecast is shocking.
I Have a New Bike
The first fancy bike I got when we moved to Dublin in 2008 was stolen. My sister gave me her old bike to replace it and it served me faithfully for a number of years but it was showing signs of wear and the back wheel was buckled by opportunistic thieves (who didn’t get it) and straightened (by a passing French tourist who took pity on me) and still wobbled. And the gears were shot. And it was designed for a flat country (it was my sister’s bike when she lived in the Netherlands). And I cycle every day around town and I felt it was time. Here is a picture of my new bike; taken partially for this blog and partially so that I can use the picture to try to retrieve it if stolen.
Weekend Round-Up
More GAA for Daniel and Mr. Waffle on Saturday morning. Meanwhile, Michael and the Princess and I cycled into town which went very well. We got sandals for herself and dropped in to the Chocolate Factory which was having “A weekend celebration of an emerging design community“. Herself and Michael regarded this with the deepest suspicion but it was very successful. They made origami frogs.
There was a “create your own den” thing which they loved and it was manned by a young woman who had done something on art and philosophy with Michael’s class a couple of years ago and, amazingly, remembered him. While they were playing with the designer den, I was looking at the exhibition. I didn’t buy anything but there were some really lovely things.
Downstairs in the inevitable pop up shop, the children bought wooden key holders for €5 each. It took them a very long time to decide and they explained at some length to the nice woman on the cash desk their difficulties in choosing. “You know, I think the artist wants to get rid of these anyway,” she said, “Why don’t you have another one each for free?” Great rejoicing.
Buoyed up by this success, I said I would buy an ice cream for the trip home. While waiting outside the shop for the children, a child no older than Michael threw a Lucozade bottle at the bin and missed. “Pick that up,” I said smartly (oh yes, I am now that woman) but he didn’t hear me and sailed in to the safety of the shop. Herself put it in the bin for me.
Then we began the long trek home. I discovered, belatedly, that my children are not capable of cycling and eating ice cream. In fact Michael can’t push a bike and eat ice cream. So I pushed my bike and his and we essentially walked all the way home. I sent the Princess (speedy ice cream eater) on ahead but Michael and I trudged on (it felt like for miles) while he enjoyed his almost endless Calippo. This deeply unsatisfactory progress also gave me the opportunity to mortify my poor children.
A gang of four young children (aged, say 8-12) came up to me as I was pushing the bikes and pointing at Michael’s said, “Hey, can I have a shot of that?” “No,” I said shortly, and recognising the Lucozade culprit, I added “I saw you throwing a can of Lucozade on the ground, don’t do that, it’s not nice, we all have to live here and we don’t want rubbish on the ground.” Him, startled “It wasn’t a can, it was a bottle and I picked it up on the way out.” “No, you didn’t,” I said, “it was gone when you came out because I asked her to pick it up [indicating Herself]” Insert here, the sound of the ground opening and swallowing the Princess and the reproachful words “Why did you have to bring me into it?” The culprit said gamely, “I must have put another bottle in the bin” and so, admiring his resourcefulness, hostilities were suspended and we spoke a bit more generally about where they were from and what they were up to before they took themselves off. I feel like some kind of caricature; should I have just said nothing?
After mass on Sunday morning [herself did a reading which went fine but also sang the alleluia before the Gospel from the altar for the first time, possibly needs work] we were all back at the GAA. If I never see Gaelic games again, it won’t be too soon and, as Mr. Waffle, points out, he actually does almost all the ferrying and sideline standing. On Sunday he also took Daniel’s broken hurley to be fixed notwithstanding the fact that we have already bought a new one. The hurley man indicated that it was irreparable. I wanted to throw it out but Daniel resisted on the grounds that it had “sentimental value” which is an attitude which explains why attics across the land are full to bursting point.
We all cycled up to the GAA club for the blitz to support Daniel in his endeavour and then we cycled to the pub where we had a triumphal drink to celebrate his medal and then home again. Only hair raising in parts.
On Sunday afternoon we had our first barbecue of the summer and it didn’t rain although was threateningly cloudy. Then at 7, Mr. Waffle and I went to a midsummer party and finally home at 11 to face into a new week, refreshed.
Surprised by June
Every year, I am astounded by June.
It’s bright almost 24 hours a day and the weather is lovely. All the roses come out. The garden becomes out of control.
Disclaimer: This is not my garden but look at the verdant foliage. It’s on the way to school in the morning.
Further disclaimer: This is manifestly not my garden and is, in fact, in Cork. But it makes the verdant foliage point strongly.
Meanwhile, at work, I realise that I am taking leave over the summer and throw myself into all the things that must be completed by end June. The bitter discovery when I return in September that they are no further advanced is not foremost in my mind in June. This June is worse than usual as I am supposed to be moving to a new role in September. Then we have a cyclical high profile event in June which requires constant vigilance and somehow, no matter how well prepared for (and, trust me here, it is really well prepared for), June itself always throws up a couple of crises.
Locally, the church garden party and the street party always happen in June. We had the church garden party at the weekend. I manned the sumo wrestling stand. No joke I can tell you.
The street party is yet to come but I see a starring role for the Waffles as Mr. Waffle is chair of the residents’ committee.
Sort of related, herself has been baking like a demon. She made pretzels and brownies for the church garden party (the cream of the latter reserved for her London aunt who was in town for the weekend).
Recently she has also made grissini, brioche and, only this evening, crumpets. What are we to make of this?
Meanwhile, at school, there is frenetic activity: school tours, school sports day, graduation (from primary school!) and obligations like finding pillowslips (for the sack race) and funding in coins of small denominations at short notice. In fact, herself had an overnight school tour last week. They went to an adventure centre in Wicklow and had an amazing time: swimming, canoeing, midnight hiking; and just running around. Unfortunately, I forgot to tell the childminder that she wouldn’t be coming home on Thursday and he and the boys waited patiently outside the school for her until he got hold of Mr. Waffle who was able to clarify. For the amusement of non-Irish readers, see items 1 and 2 on the list of what she had to bring.
Also associated with the end of the school year are various presents which must be purchased and offered to teachers as appropriate.
The GAA goes into overdrive with a summer mini-tournament almost all the time. Poor Daniel is practically always running out the door with a hurley in his hand or returning pink faced and exhausted. Nor are scouts showing the slightest sign of let up. Michael went to the park this evening and returned filthy but happy.
And poor Mr. Waffle is away again, so I am keeping the home fires burning (metaphorically only, it is sweltering for Dublin, it may have been 20 degrees today).
All this to say, posting may continue to be light in June.
Oh, and happy Bloomsday, if that is your thing. Maybe, this year I will finally read “Ulysses”. If you have done so, please indicate whether you found it even slightly readable.
Anecdotal Evidence
I had lunch with 6 colleagues the other day aged between 35 and 50ish. The talk turned to property as it often does in Ireland. “How many of us are accidental landlords?” I asked. Four of us, it transpired. “How many would sell, if we had any chance of recouping our money?” Four of us, it transpired.
The 50ish has a lovely house. The mid-30s person is wisely biding her time. The rest of us? Wrong place at the wrong time/reckless investors. Take your pick. Choose tactfully.
