Mr. Waffle

Anois Teacht an Earraigh

27 February, 2022
Posted in: Boys, Cork, Daniel, Family, Ireland, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Travel, Work

It’s been a busy month. It would have been my mother’s 86th birthday on the 1st of February; the feast of St. Brigid (and from next year we’re going to get an extra bank holiday to celebrate it as well – a Covid dividend apparently). She was very fond of this poem and often quoted from it. Apparently we do all turn into our mothers.

At mass a small child was running around the church. I recognised her mother and realised that she was the last baby baptised before the pandemic started (I mean I think that the church was still baptising away, but the pre-baptism meeting with the outreach team was halted for the duration of the pandemic). It has been a long haul. Particularly for the parents of young children I would imagine.

Life is gradually getting back to normal. From tomorrow, we can stop wearing masks in most places. The other night Mr. Waffle went out for a drink with his friends; “just like a real boy,” said Daniel who in his sister’s absence is bidding fair to become our most sarcastic resident. It is not, however, that he never met his friends in the pub before but that it has been a couple of years since he has done so and the boys have just forgotten what it was like before.

Mr. Waffle and I went to the cinema for the first time since the pandemic started (if you don’t count the time we went to see the Met live streamed and I really don’t). We saw Belfast. It got rave reviews and I did quite enjoy it but it wasn’t as fantastic as everyone said. I asked my friend from Belfast (who grew up six minutes walk away from Kenneth Branagh’s street) what he thought and he said he felt that broadly it was quite realistic – though no one is buying that after a Presbyterian funeral the mourners were invited to do a bit of singing and dancing. My friend did comment that he felt Branagh really wanted it to be a musical but lacked the nerve to follow through on that ambition – you can see how a musical about the start of the Troubles might be.. challenging. Once you’ve heard that it’s hard to shake that insight. I was surprised how much a working-class Protestant childhood in Belfast in the 60s was like a middle-class Catholic childhood in Cork in the 70s. They even had the same Christmas tree as us. And also, a favourite song of my father’s – from some film I think – “Do not forsake me oh my darling” was featured on the soundtrack. I don’t think I’ve heard it since he died.

February is rugby season and Dan has been to see see the Irish team lose to France with his uncle a couple of weeks ago (did you see anyone you knew at the match? yes another uncle from the other side of the family – Ireland is tiny) and win against Italy today. Neither entirely satisfactory – the first for obvious reasons and the second because it was a massacre. Oh well. I remember two years ago when lock down started during the six nations – I am not a massive rugby fan but I am so glad to see it back. Poor Daniel has been injured again in GAA (no matches or training for a week says the physio), at least it isn’t rugby, I suppose, where his never give up attitude could be quite terrifying.

We had friends round to dinner. We went to an exhibition (on the Treaty in Dublin Castle – a bit dull but worthy and, you know, an exhibition).

My sister and I went on a food tasting tour in Cork. Not bad but it started at 10.30 and the first bite of food did not pass our lips until 11.45. Can I tell you how much I regretted skipping breakfast so that I would have room for all the food I was going to taste? Anyway, the best tip was always book a food tour when you go to a new city as, by definition, it will be run by people who love food and will be able to give you great restaurant tips for your stay. I give you this for free.

The tour guide described how he met Prince Albert of Monaco when he (the tour guide) was doing some yacht racing and Prince Albert asked him where he was from. Our guide said Ireland and Prince Albert said, “My mother was Irish.” “I know,” said the guide. I quite liked the modest assumption of Albert that we might not know who his mother was. She was American, of course, but we can be flexible when it suits us. She stayed in the Imperial Hotel when she came to Cork, if you’re interested. It’s also where I got my first morsel of food when on the food tour and where my granny and Aunt Cecilia used to meet for afternoon tea on a Saturday. A historic spot.

In other, it’s all over bar the shouting, news herself had some school friends visit her in England and then we came across to see her. God, it lashed rain. Due to a booking mishap we had to move accommodation during the two days we were there and we traipsed miserably about with our sodden bag rolling behind us.

However, notwithstanding the appalling climactic conditions, we had a lovely time overall. The Princess showed us around, found good places for us to eat and introduced us to her English friends (lovely, articulate, polite young people who were nice to her brothers – gold star). We went to a museum. I went to evensong where two of her friends sang (one of them is -gasp – Tiktok famous) and it was absolutely beautiful.

I said to her, “I see everyone’s wearing those pearls on their eyes now that you had a couple of years ago. ” Very fashion forward though I still think a bit daft looking. “Where did you get them?” I asked because they were definitely not available in the make up shops then. “From the wedding stationery bit of Eason’s,” she said. Maybe she’ll make a fortune yet as some kind of futurologist.

After our visit to herself in college, we went to London for a couple of days. Did you know that you can pay for transport in London with your contactless bank card? Hands down the most impressive transport innovation of my lifetime. Delighted.

We travelled by boat,

we went to the London Eye,

the Tower of London, Covent Garden, the British Museum (briefly to check out a complaint written in cuneiform which Daniel had seen on the internet), Hodge’s statue,

Leadenhall market (adjacent to Gracechurch street where, enthusiasts will remember Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner lived, Michael who spent the week reading Pride and Prejudice was resolutely unimpressed but I, a true fan, was charmed),

and Mr. Waffle’s sister’s family for dinner and an exciting chance to inspect their new house purchased last year.

It was all excellent though slightly exhausting. I was never happier to splurge on a taxi than when I had walked from Bloomsbury to the Tower of London. What was truly wonderful was having the London relatives on tap for advice on what to do and – possibly more importantly – where to eat near the various attractions. It was like having an expert guide with full knowledge of you and your family’s needs. In fact, actually, that was exactly what it was. It was the best trip I’ve had in a very long time (even pre-Covid). Still, I was possibly influenced by the fact that it was very, very nice to be abroad for the first time since summer 2019*.

I was a little unnerved when we got home and Michael said that it was good to be back somewhere the Russians were less likely to think of as a target. Does he not realise his sister is living in England? Oh the poor Ukrainians.

And in final it is over, surely it’s over, news, I’ve decided to take a bit of time off work. I am flattened. My mother died in June 2019, my father died in December 2020, work has been tough in the pandemic, herself has left home and her brothers will be finishing school next year and moving on to a new part of their lives. I feel a bit like it’s now or never. So I will be removing myself from the labour market from June 2022 until October 2023. I have no major plans, I will not be travelling the world or writing my novel. I might rejoin the tennis club; that’s about the height of it. Funnily enough one of my bookclub friends is also taking some time out. I am very conscious that I am lucky to be able to do this.

Let me know your own post pandemic plans.

*Updated to add: my sister points out that I was in the Netherlands last autumn. Mr. Waffle points out that we were also in England in the autumn. Oops.

Long Old Month All the Same, Isn’t It?

30 January, 2022
Posted in: Dublin, Ireland, Mr. Waffle, Siblings

We had my brother up to stay last weekend and my sister came to visit yesterday. There’s no two ways about it even though we drive each other crazy sometimes – mostly? – there is nothing like a sibling. It was lovely to see them both. We went bowling with my brother and he won comfortably. A misspent youth, clearly.

Mr. Waffle and I attempted a cultural adventure last weekend but were refused entry to St Patrick’s cathedral on the grounds that evensong was on. “But it’s only 3.15,” I yelped. “It’s Protestant, you know,” said the security man slightly patronisingly. “But it’s nowhere near evening,” I said. He looked at me pityingly. “Let’s go to Marsh’s Library instead,” I said to Mr. Waffle. “That’s closed too,” said Mr. Annoying Security Guy.

We had a browse in the outdoor book fair in the park beside the Cathedral and bought two books (do we need more books? NO!). Then we went on to Bewley’s where we waited 15 minutes to be seated for tea, with Mr. Waffle chomping at the bit; he is not patient. As the young woman led us to our table she asked, “Have you been to Bewley’s before?” Mr. Waffle confided to me that he was very tempted to say to her, “I’ve been coming here since before you were born.” But he managed to stop himself which is just as well.

Today we went up to the Hellfire club which is a very modest walk in the Dublin mountains close to the city. It didn’t rain on us. A win.

We booked our summer holiday this evening which took a great deal out of both of us but it is done. Let us hope that we will be able to enjoy it in due course.

Are We Back?

22 January, 2022
Posted in: Boys, Daniel, Family, Michael, Mr. Waffle

In a move which makes me seriously fear for my sanity and which reminds me of the slightly irregular hours my mother used to favour, I found myself cleaning the door of the oven at 2.30 in the morning. I saw a video about how you could take out the inner glass door and I realised that I could get rid of that streak on the oven door which has been bothering me since last summer. I dismantled the thing. I cleaned it. After several false starts and some dark muttering I reassembled it. I am extraordinarily pleased with myself. But also a bit concerned for my sanity.

In other sanity limiting news, I just can’t seem to let my brother get rid of my parents’ books. Not just special books but any books. Books they never read, books they didn’t like, paperback detectives, books inherited from my grandparents (Daily Mail almanac 1913 anyone?). I think I am going to have to give them house room. But where? To demonstrate the extent of my difficulties, these are the bookshelves in two of the bedrooms in my parents’ house.

Third row from the top there you can see the Cork Historical and Archaeological Society’s annual publication collected for years. Am I ever going to read these volumes? No, I am not. Am I going to let my brother throw them out? Are you joking me?

In other middle aged developments we thought we had fixed our drain problems through the application of rods lent by the neighbours (did you know drain rods were a thing, it explains where Dyno-rod got their odd name anyhow). This morning when Mr. Waffle and I were out at breakfast, Daniel texted the family group chat: “Why does the whole house smell of sewage?” Why indeed. As I cower in here writing this, Mr. Waffle is out in the back garden with the neighbour’s rods and a scented candle is working extra hard in the kitchen. I’m inclined to call in the professionals at this point – Dyno-rod perhaps? – but he seems very determined to give it another go. Cross your fingers for me and my house with a definite aroma of sewage (more drains than sewage to be fair but I appreciate it’s a point of detail).

We got our water cut off during the week (query could this have triggered our drain problem?) and the electric shower failed to revive. For two hideous days until a plumber could be got out to fix the issue (2 minutes of your time sir, â‚¬50 of our money) we showered in the temporary downstairs shower in the utility room. I cannot speak of the vileness involved in our efforts to maintain hygiene standards in a cruel world.

Daniel has a sore knee and went to the physio who has given him loads of exercises to do which I hear him dutifully performing in his bedroom. When I was a teenager, I had an old fashioned typewriter in my room. My father said that when I used it, it sounded like an elephant tap dancing on the ceiling. Daniel does not sound like an elephant tap dancing but he does sound like someone giving his all to the plank and various other unpleasant lunges and stretches. In other noises off news, Daniel has started calling Michael “Shuttle brother” because of his habit of flitting up and down to the bathroom on the return at bedtime. I find this quite hilarious though I cannot say why. I think you would have to hear the lightening footsteps of fleet of foot Michael at bedtime.

I took this photo the other morning as I was leaving for work. Everyone now living in the house had departed on a bicycle. Why are there still three in the shed? I mean, why?

And finally, the Government basically lifted all restrictions last night except for mask wearing inside until end February. So that’s it then? I really hope so. Meanwhile though my sister-in-law in London has Covid. Alas.

A Long Week in January

15 January, 2022
Posted in: Boys, Daniel, Michael, Mr. Waffle

Daniel and Michael got their booster jab and, in an impressive example of bureaucratic efficiency, their Covid certs the next day. They were both pretty miserable after actually (not as sick as I gather they’d have been if they’d got Moderna but they got Pfizer happily). We should probably have kept them home from school the day after. One of Daniel’s school mates managed to spray him with a tube of yoghurt. He therefore spent the day without his school jumper freezing in the sub-zero temperatures caused by open windows (Covid related). This didn’t help his recovery and although Michael was fine the following day, Daniel spent the day in bed. They’re both better now. The school sent us home a gift bag containing a tea light holder whittled by the woodwork class and a water bottle and pen stamped with the school crest. I am somewhat baffled by this but perhaps they are building up school spirit?

We live in a terraced house and we always hear the television of our (slightly deaf) older neighbours through the wall. The other night it was very loud and Mr. Waffle mused, “I wonder what they’re watching in Screen 2?” It reminded me of when I was younger and you could hear what was going on in the cinema next door in the multiplex. I think this is now a thing of the past and we can only welcome progress in this regard.

HIghlight of my week was going to the cheese shop and buying some Brillat Savarin. Not the purchase (although it is very much my favourite cheese) but the man behind the counter saying to me “Vous Ãªtes franÃ§aise?” Non, but I cannot thank you enough for asking.

The worst thing to happen this week was the seemingly random murder of a young woman. I have a lot of thoughts about this and maybe I’ll write about it another time. There was a picture of her family on the front of today’s paper and it is heart breaking. I can’t think about it without crying.

The Mother of All Sundays

9 January, 2022
Posted in: Boys, Daniel, Dublin, Family, Ireland, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings

I’m back to work tomorrow after what feels like a very long break. Am I looking forward to it? I am not.

Covid

Over the past week, Mr. Waffle and I have sampled a range of Dublin eateries for breakfast/brunch, which has been hugely enjoyable. However, if I get Covid, it will definitely be from the Elephant and Castle in Temple Bar. It’s not that they weren’t observing all of the requirements but it was the fullest place we’ve been in months.

So, I do not currently have Covid. However, Covid is rampant here. My brother-in-law and his wife have it – baffled as to where they could have got it. My brother is at home self-isolating as a close contact of some randomer in Spain (regular readers will recall that he was in Tenerife for Christmas). I am a bit amazed that the systems talk to each other and impressed. He’s not delighted.

I went to visit my mother’s friend from college whose husband died in August. Two of her sons live abroad with their families and couldn’t easily come home due to Covid. She and her son who lives at home had been going to host her other Dublin based son and his wife and children for Christmas Day. However, you guessed it, the son, his wife and children all came down with Covid so it was just my mother’s friend and her son who lives at home for Christmas Day. He had a really bad reaction to his Moderna booster and spent Christmas evening throwing up so it was not exactly a peaceful and joyful day as hoped.

My friend who lives in America came home with her husband and four children. There was a problem with two of the children’s passports and her husband had to stay behind with them to sort with the American embassy while my friend went home with the younger children. This is not exactly a Covid story but, of course, everything was made much more complex by having to source a Covid test (when the public system had basically given up putting additional stress on private testing) after they had solved their passport difficulties.

Culture

We went on a number of cutural outings. Somewhat satisfactory. There was an exhibition in Dublin castle on photography in Ireland from 1839. Look, ok, it was put on by the photography bit of the National Library but a bit more on the subjects of the photographs as well as full details on the photographers and their techniques wouldn’t have been any harm.

As a Trinity graduate, Mr. Waffle can get in to the Book of Kells free and bring a couple of guests. This is a genuine graduate perk, I have to concede. When he and I visited we were told that now you have to book in advance to get the graduate perk. “Will we just go in anyway?” I said to Mr. Waffle. “How much is it?” I asked the woman on security. â‚¬18 a head! We did not just go in anyway.

In other cultural excitements, I decided to go to the annual Turner exhibition in the National Gallery but there was a big queue so I was put off. Instead, I decided I would finally cash in the gallery membership I got last Christmas (2020 – I was waiting for Covid to be over so I could get full value for my annual membership, I’m tired of waiting) and go into the (cost-free to members) Jack Yeats exhibition. Was there anyone in the whole gallery who could assist me in redeeming my membership? There was not. Apparently I can ring any morning. Well, that’s helpful. A job for next week. I had a wander around the free stuff but my absence of membership gnawed at my frugal bargain-loving soul and I couldn’t enjoy it properly thinking I ought to be in the Jack Yeats exhibition for free.

Great Outdoors

We went on a couple of successful walks. Out to Howth Head early on Wednesday morning with Daniel and Michael. When Daniel saw the Summit car park he said, “Oh God not here.” This was not exactly propitious but it was a beautiful day and we had the walk largely to ourselves and, I think, despite himself, he didn’t hate it. We had lunch in Howth and were home by early afternoon filled with inner smugness (in fairness, that was probably just me).

On Wednesday night, we had a farewell dinner. I went all out on the Christmas ware which none of the menfolk appreciate at all. Their loss but it was nice to have herself defending it, even if it does make the cupboards a bit full for December (conceded).

Thursday was Women’s Christmas. The Wise Men completed their epic journey from the far side of the hand sanitiser on the hall table.

The boys went back to school. Herself went back to England. We drove her to the airport. “Did you see my whatsapp message about how hilarious it is to google “askew”?” I asked. “Yes,” she said tartly, “but I knew about it already because I have been on the internet since 2007.” Notwithstanding her very recent reminder of how keeping your parents young can be a brutal process, I was so gutted to see her go. It’s just really sad seeing a child off at the airport and I know it’s great that she’s having such a good time and loving it and the alternative would be much worse but I am heart broken. Seeing the light flooding into her bedroom every morning because the curtains are open gives me a pang and reminds me that she’s gone, probably for good. For the very first time, I am wondering what it was like for my mother when I moved abroad at 23 – and basically was gone forever. In fairness, herself is only 18 which seems so young notwithstanding her extraordinary competence at managing everything. I completely forgot to slip her any money at the airport which was something my mother did for me without fail. Happily her father remembered and had cash to hand so that she could sustain herself on her epic trek.

Mr. Waffle and I drove away from the airport in lashing rain. I had decided to go for a walk in Carlingford to cheer us up but as we drove there in the downpour I did wonder about the wisdom of that. Miraculously the weather cleared as we arrived and stayed fine while we had our walk.

Then it started to lash again. We went off to a nice lunch spot which we had found on our recon mission during the summer. A pretty successful day out.

When we returned to Dublin, the boys debriefed us on school. They said it was largely empty as half the children and many of the teachers were out with Covid or were close contacts of Covid sufferers. God, I really hope they don’t close the schools.

Change and Decay etc.

On Friday morning, Mr. Waffle and I went to a friend’s father’s funeral. It’s the biggest funeral I’ve been to since Covid. The back doors of the church were left open (Covid, I assume) and the sleet blew straight in and down the back of my neck between my scarf and collar no matter how tightly I wound my scarf. I have never been so cold at a funeral mass. They must have been perished at the graveyard afterwards although it can’t have been a great deal colder than the back of the church. The mass was lovely, if chilly. A relative was an organist and they had pieces from FaurÃ©’s requiem. An outstanding funeral music performance (although a friend did tell me about a funeral he went to where they had a choir and string quartet – which I’m sure was excellent – upping the ante even in death). The speeches (several) were very good, particularly a granddaughter who gave a real feel for what the dead man had been like to her and her cousins (lovely, obviously). I ran into a friend – it turned out she was there in her professional capacity as president of an important national body where the dead man had been advisor to the finance committee. I tell you what, it’s weird to be part of the middle aged, middle class establishment. Where have all the grown ups gone? Dead and buried apparently.

We went home and Mr. Waffle worked for the afternoon and the boys and I took down all the Christmas decorations. What a melancholy end to the holidays. January is going to be grim, I fear, but I’ve decided we will all – Covid permitting – visit herself in England during mid-term in February. She and her brothers are, if not delighted, at least resigned.

How’s your January going?

Christmas Round Up

2 January, 2022
Posted in: Boys, Cork, Daniel, Dublin, Family, Ireland, Michael, Mr. Waffle, Princess, Siblings

Christmas Eve, 2021

My sister sent me an advent calendar which she made herself with Christmas pictures from years past which I absolutely loved.

The last picture is a still from a video 10 years ago when the boys and I were walking through Temple Bar. Michael peered at it “Is that you? I can’t believe how young you look compared to now.” Telling it like it is, our Michael.

We drove down to Cork. In a genius move, Daniel had downloaded the “Muppet Christmas Carol” soundtrack which serenaded us part of the way. Herself was testing us on the Myles Na gCopaleen “Catechism of Cliche” where I was doing exceptionally well, I might add. “You know,” I said to her, “he was from Northern Ireland.” Daniel, busy listening to the Muppets said in considerable surprise, “What Kermit?” “Yes,” said Mr. Waffle, “that’s why he’s so green.” We’re hilarious.

The in-laws in London sent us a message that some Christmas pantomime had to be cancelled as Beauty and the Beast both got Covid.

Moving on from the Muppets we had general Christmas carols and played “Il est nÃ© le divin enfant” which was previously unknown to me but appears to occupy the space in French culture which “Away in a Manager” does here (mostly for the children’s Christmas nativity play but can be gussied up for more formal occasions). Mr. Waffle said that he had heard it on Lyric FM (yes, we are now Lyric listeners – your point?) earlier and the host said, “From my French, I think that means “he is not the divine infant.” So close. And as herself regularly says to me, slightly sardonically, “context clues.”

We had three hours in the car. It’s a long time. This interaction is not untypical.

Me: Michael, you need a new guitar string, don’t you?

Mr. Waffle: Which string?

Michael (tetchily – he’s the one in the boot): Give me a minute, I’m trying to think.

Herself (briefly removing her earphones): This is exactly what will happen during all Christmas interactions.

Me: I’m sure it’s not.

Her(sticking back in her earphones) : Yes it is. Cassandra out.

Things perked up when we got to Cork. My sister had spent weeks getting my parents’ house ready for our arrival and we all had beds (not a given) and I hadn’t seen it so pleasant and organised since before my mother got sick. And she had dinner ready for us. Delightful.

Over dinner, I mentioned my father calling him Daddy and the children thought I meant their father whom I also call Daddy (I know, I know, I try not to, it’s horrendous). Mr. Waffle pointed out that my family has too few names for too many people. “Look at Dan,” he suggested. “Well, my father is dead and my brother is in Tenerife, so in fact, there are no Dans,” I said tartly. “What am I?” asked my misfortunate son Daniel who was sitting beside me. Alas.

We walked up to midnight mass at 9 in the evening. It rained on us and the church was surpisingly empty. The priest galloped through it (he skipped the second reading which I didn’t approve of but I quite liked if you see what I mean) and even with a choir (which was a lovely surprise given Covid restrictions) we were out by 9.45 for our damp walk home.

Christmas Day, 2021

We were all up reasonably early but not as early as Daniel who woke at 3 in the morning and in his excitement couldn’t get back to sleep and spent the night watching Spiderman films. Good presents all round and my sister cooked an incredible Christmas dinner for all of us and for my aunt who came in from next door.

Mr. Waffle, the Princess and I went to visit my parents’ grave – the graveyard was full of people, who knew this was a thing? I probably wouldn’t have gone myself, if it hadn’t been my father’s anniversary.

Overall, a great success and the visit to the graveyard wasn’t even too bad – it’s an interesting graveyard – mock all you like.

St. Stephen’s Day, 2021

I had booked those who were willing (Michael and herself) in to the outdoor skating circuit in Fota. It was a bit of a pain finding the entrance (don’t ask) but actually great fun when we got there. The skating circuit was small (and I have no idea how they kept it frozen) but outdoors which was lovely. And while I wouldn’t call any of us star skaters (even though herself had been to Somerset House when she was in London – less glam than Cork, I’m sure but still good practice) we appeared better at it than the majority of people. There was a very slight downhill slope which meant that for half the circuit little effort was involved. At the very last minute, as we were getting off the ice, I fell over. The injury to my dignity was severe but otherwise no lasting harm done.

Herself sent the following message to the family group chat:

Have lost Â£100 in an unmarked envelope (save your laughter) so please look carefully before you recycle/burn anything!

The money was a present from her aunt and my sister and I found it by going through the large green bin outside. I feel my unmerited reputation for throwing out everything was, alas, reinforced by this episode. Yeah, it was me, of course, it was me, if you leave an unmarked envelope on the floor, I will throw it out. On the plus side sorting of rubbish for environmental reasons made this a more pleasant task than it would have been in times past.

Monday, December 27, 2021

Mr. Waffle and I went to Kinsale to visit a friend of his who was back from London. We would have taken the children for a walk as well but it was lashing so they were spared. She renovated her house extensively and it is, I must say, extremely swish.

When we got back to Cork, Mr. Waffle asked where the Irish Times was as he had succeeded in completing the prize crossword. Back to the recycling bin. Look, if you don’t want a three day old newspaper thrown out, you have to say something. I fear my reputation may be consolidated though.

Tuesday, December 28, 2021

Herself and myself went for breakfast in the Crawford together. “I’m trying a look, don’t say anything,” she said slightly dauntingly before we went out. I did not say anything.

We had a look at the Rembrandt exhibition. It was grand but I am not a big Rembrandt fan, still interesting to have seen it.

Mr. Waffle and the children went back to Dublin, filling the car to the brim with loot. I stayed an extra night to meet a school friend who had come back from America for Christmas with her husband and four children.

My friend described her departure from America in such hair-raising terms (antigen test places closed due to Covid cases in the staff) that I have zero desire to do anything like this. However, she reckons that we could have Covid for ten years (she’s a doctor but a cardiologist, I really, really hope she’s wrong) and we had better start doing things. I don’t know. Contexts seem to be different in different countries.

It was interesting, the Princess was saying that in England, no one ever talks about NZ and it’s all about Sweden. We are all about NZ and their extremely successful strategies for dealing with Covid but I haven’t heard too much coverage of Sweden, a bit I mean but it isn’t the first country Irish media outlets seem to look at.

I finally (two years after my mother’s death) cleaned my stuff out of my childhood bedroom, something she had been asking me to do since 1993. To be fair there wasn’t much left – some college and school essays, old papers, a few pieces of jewellery. My sister was suitably impressed by my ability to chuck things but I think I had probably brought to Dublin years ago anything of value to me.

Wednesday, December 29, 2021

I went in to the market to get a poke bowl to bring to herself in Dublin because I am a saint. The wretched Cork bike stands weren’t working in two places so this delayed me. However, I must give credit to the people in TFI who I emailed in some irritation and who replied instantly to say call us and we can re-start the screen for you. Very gratifying. Nevertheless, I was slightly late for my sister who had promised to give me a lift back to Dublin. In my defence, my sister has become punctual and that put me off.

It was nice to be home all the same. Poor next door had had Christmas cancelled as their first born despite being double vaccinated had got Covid again. They had been going to host Christmas dinner so had to dole out supplies to relations from behind closed doors. The parents and younger child had been scheduled to go skiing and were antigen testing every day. They did get off but it’s all a bit stressful.

Thursday, December 30, 2021

A friend from work and his four children came to visit. I was able to deploy my Christmas ware and also the fruits of my Christmas hampers. I was delighted with myself. He said that my kitchen reminded him of Mr. Tumnus’s and I was thrilled as I suddenly realised that this was the look I had been going for all along.

New Year’s Eve, 2021

Our Irish Times did not come but there was the neighbours’ copy on their doorstep. Later, Mr. Waffle realised that the neighbours don’t get the IT during the week and they had obviously got our copy. When he went to retrieve it, it was gone. Who were we to begrudge the poor self-isolating one a paper?

Mr. Waffle and I went out for breakfast and when we came back, we began to dole out tasks to the children. Daniel said, “I knew when I heard you come in – clompity stromp (his own invention but I like it) – that it would be empty the dishwasher, put away clothes.” I am afraid it was. I am predictable that way.

We went off for a post-Christmas visit to the cousins. Very pleasant. “Had we any plans for this evening?” they asked. I looked blank, I had completely forgotten it was new year’s eve.

Herself had to bail a bit early as she was going to the theatre with a friend (Faith Healer – it was grand).

Everything closed at 8 so she was back by half past. We all went to bed but were awoken at midnight by the quite spectacular illegal firework display nearby. We had some champagne and wished the neighbours a happy new year including the Covid one who was waving from her front door at her friends standing by the gate.

It was fine, you know, but herself said to me that all her friends in England had put up on instragram, fireworks and meetings with friends and Dublin is just dead. “There’ll be other new years,” I said encouragingly. “Not when I am 18 and new year just isn’t the same when you’re 52.” I am afraid that is unanswerable. Although when I was cleaning out my room I found a third of a pound note which I had split with two friends on new year’s eve 1989 saying that we would meet again in 1999 and put it together. Reader, we did not. But I was reminded of that very dull evening in the rugby club in 1989 when we had been reduced to tearing up a pound note for a mild thrill. I suppose what I’m saying is that not all new year festivities are what they might be.

New Year’s Day, 2022

Mr. Waffle and I went for a lovely walk. Lovely walk was lovely. We avoided the traffic chaos on the way by taking our bikes. So my walk was accompanied by a side order of smug glow.

Sunday, 2 January, 2022

Fresh from the successful walk the previous day, I announced to the children that we were going to Howth for a walk. Herself said that she planned to dedicate her day to college work but the boys and Mr. Waffle, God love them, were resigned to their fate.

When I was in mass my phone rang which has never happened to me before. It was a friend. I did not answer or check the text messages she sent but spent all mass thinking that someone we both know must have died because what else could it be to require an actual phone call.

Anyhow, when I got out it was to find that she was suggesting a walk at 2.30 in the park with a third friend. I was delighted. The menfolk graciously agreed to defer their walk.

When I got home there was a message from my brother-in-law – whom we had met on Friday – that he had just got a positive antigen test (they were going out to meet friends and he had one to be on the safe side). Herself pulled out the stash of free, yes, free tests that she had brought home from England and I twirled away (v unpleasant it was too). Negative. I told my friends, they said come on the walk anyway. I did. I mean all three of us are triple vaccinated and we were meeting outside.

And it was brilliant. There is nothing like meeting people in person. I came home full of energy and enthusiasm and tackled the old receipts and guarantees box. In no way do I have form for throwing out necessary things.

My brother is home from Tenerife and he called to find out why both recycling bins in Cork are full. What can I say, I’m good at recycling.

I hope that your own Christmas was happy and Covid free.