Every trip I make to the altar seems destined to be fraught with difficulty. One Sunday the Princess did the second reading and the psalm without a hitch. She, Daniel and Michael sailed through the prayers of the faithful. Why oh why did my two lines at the start go wrong? I despair. I started. The priest looked at me making frantic eyebrow gestures, I turned on the mic and started again. His eyebrows became even more contorted. The verger came and switched on the mic. It had been on originally. I understand that the third time is a charm. I am not cut out for this.
Ireland
All Drama
Did I tell you about when my sister-in-law came to visit last month?
She got the bus and it took ages. It turned out that she had been caught up in an unannounced Ebola test run: closed streets, guards, hazmat suits. She said it was very exciting and mildly alarming as nobody told the bus passengers that it was only a trial.
Today is, of course, Thanksgiving, in far off America. I was thinking of doing one of those winsome “I’m thankful” posts that Americans go for but although I am thankful for many things, I don’t have the energy to be winsome. I’m thankful that no one in Ireland has Ebola. Really, I am. That will have to do.
This whole NaBloPoMo thing is killing me. How are you finding it?
Roscommon is Lovely in November
My colleague (from Roscommon) uttered these, slightly sarcastic words when I told him that Mr. Waffle and I were going to the Midlands this weekend.
We went for a walk on a peninsula that sticks out into Lough Ree. The start of the walk was a bit unnerving:
It was really lovely though and the cattle were peaceful. There was an abandoned castle which was full of romance and reminded me of Cair Paravel when the Pevensie children returned at the start of Prince Caspian. We had the peninsula entirely to ourselves.
Roscommon? Lovely in November.
Together at Last
Table leg brought from my parents’ attic to Dublin a fortnight ago:
Table top brought from the back of my mother’s wardrobe to Dublin tonight:
Reunited table for the first time since 1982:
Tiny First World Problems
Tiny Problem 1
I went out for dinner with an old school friend last night. This was the culmination of many months of planning. Over the months I had booked the restaurant three times and cancelled twice. The day before yesterday, the restaurant people left me a voicemail asking whether I was still coming [you can see why they might be concerned]. I rang them back and explained that I was. Then, yesterday morning my friend texted and said that she wanted to go somewhere local and later. So, I rang the restaurant at 4 and cancelled again. At 5.40 my friend telephoned and said, “Actually, I’m making much better time than I expected, have you cancelled the restaurant?” “I have,” I said arcticly. “Why don’t you ring them, they may not have given the table away yet.” I bit my tongue and I rang. “We can’t give you a table in the restaurant but we can give you a table in the gastobar.” [Far from gastrobars we were reared etc.] “Fine,” I said. In the pair of us went. “Oh,” said my friend, “it’s such a pity we’re not in the restaurant, it’s far nicer.” I glared at her and she added hastily, “And it’s all my fault, of course.”
TP 2
Mr. Waffle took the children to school today as I was going to a conference in the opposite direction. They trooped out at 8.30 and I didn’t need to leave until 9. For the first time, I contemplated breakfast alone at home. I tidied up the breakfast things and put on the kettle. Just as the kettle boiled, I heard a cheery voice say, “Hello, hello!” as the cleaner let herself in the front door.
TP 3
I cycled to the conference in driving rain. As I was locking my bike it tipped over neatly sending the contents of the basket into an enormous puddle and emptying out my handbag entirely. I fished out flattened, floating scraps of paper and electronic devices as best I might but not before leaping backwards to avoid the falling bike and landing in the puddle up to my knees.
TP 4
The base of my thumb was a little sore and reading Dooce’s blog, I thought I might have injured myself from constant candy crushing. Dooce obviously acquired her injury while earning a living so that made it more glamourous. So this morning I took candy crush off my phone to save my thumb. This evening I got the train to Cork. When I went into the newsagent at the station, they were sold out of the Irish Times so I was left to entertain myself as best I might with no candy crush, no wifi and a very dull work related book which I have been carrying around in my handbag fooling myself that I will read. It was also, obviously, still damp after its morning dip.
Please tell me your stupid problems so I don’t feel utterly shallow or, at least, not utterly alone in my shallowness. And there is some fundamental problem with the syntax of that last sentence and I am too tired to fix it. Is that TP 5? I think it might be.
Stairway to Heaven
My father remarked when I was in Cork recently that I had become “very houseproud”. These words were not uttered in an approving tone; not a disapproving tone either, more mildly startled.
As regular readers will know, I love my house. Over the summer we got the hall floor re-varnished and my sister gave me a present of a rug that she bought in India for me. Is it not beautiful?
And we got the front door painted as well. And, then, I felt that it would be a good idea to polish the door furniture [yes, that’s what it’s called, who knew?] which was a much more challenging undertaking than you might imagine but surprisingly pleasing.
I then had the bit between my teeth and decided that I would polish the stair rods, a task which I had previously scorned as something that you would want to be insane to tackle [you may draw your own conclusions at this point]. I did them at a steady rate of about one per evening. They took an hour or so each and there were 30 in total. The effort. But the effect is so pleasing for me and I hope that when I need to do them again, the grime of ages will not have set in and it will not take me so long. Note in the picture below the shiny brassiness of the lower rods while the upper rods are very tarnished. It’s very hard to take a good picture of the whole staircase so you will just have to trust me that they are now all done.
I picked up a pitch black coal bucket in my parents attic [speculation that it came from my paternal grandparents’ house but really nobody knows] and spent ages attacking it with flour salt and vinegar which confirmed that it was copper but I failed at making it the shiny, beautiful copper in the internet instructions. It’s just very hard to get a coal bucket in the kitchen sink.
You will note from the picture above that I have not yet turned my brass polishing attention to the fender. I think it may just be too big a job for me. The best is the enemy of the good and all that.
Then I turned my attention to the family silver.
Polishing silver is so much easier than copper and brass. And it is so shiny.
Here is our entire family silver collection. Maybe didn’t take hours to polish now. Those with larger collections may find it more challenging.
Also, I love my wedding presents – those coasters? Wedding presents. Two Georgian silver serving spoons [out of shot]? Wedding presents. How delightful it is to be conventional in middle age.
