Mr. Waffle brought this to my attention as it combines two of our children’s favourite things:
Mr. Waffle
Not Known at this Address
Mr. Waffle: Who lives at 124 Conch Street?
Me: Leopold Bloom?
Him: Nope, that was 7 Eccles Street.
Me: Someone else from “Ulysses” then?
Him: Nope.
Me: Alright who?
Him: Spongebob Squarepants.
Maybe this should be the year I read “Ulysses“.
Drill and Practice
Mr. Waffle: Do you know how brackets work, Miss?
Herself: Yes, you do the operation inside the brackets first. We did that last year.
Mr. Waffle: What is the Irish for brackets then?
Herself (coldly): Maths is a universal language.*
*Translation: I don’t know.
All You Need is Love
While I was on one of my many trips to Cork recently, my husband took my boots to the cobbler and got them re-soled. I walked home in the rain the other night with toasty dry feet. And you know that I got a Valentine’s card too? Who says romance is dead?
Nearly There
Him: Have you decided what you are going to wear for N’s wedding?
Me: Yeah, it’s a bit mother of the bride but it’s ok.
Him: Well I am going to be father of the bride, so that suits.
It has been decided that Mr. Waffle will say a few words at his sister’s wedding though this is turning out to be less onerous than originally expected (correspondence below):
From: Mr. Waffle
To: MeLooks like I’ll have to jettison the last 18 minutes of my speech…
———- Forwarded message ———-
From: The Bride to be
To: Mr. WaffleHi
How are you? Looking forward to seeing you on Sat week! Hope the speech is not too taxing … we’d ideally like them to come in at under 2 mins or so, but don’t let me cramp your style! I’m sure it will be great.
Talk soon
Flowergirl is very excited indeed.
Greta Garbo Moment or More First World Problems
I get my hair cut once every six months. It grows slowly. Today, I got it cut by this man. I would post a picture but you would die from the coolness of it. Also, all the pictures the Princess took before I went out are impossibly blurry and it just doesn’t look the same after playing tennis in a hat for an hour and a half (lost 6-0, 6-2, thanks for asking).
In a fit of rashness, I made the appointment for Friday at 5. This meant I had to cycle to work so that I would be able to scoot out of the office at 4.45 and be at the hairdresser’s for 5. I signalled to my loving family that I would need to cycle. Everyone wanted to know, why was I cycling to work and not going with them in the car. And then promptly forgot and wanted to know again. At work, Friday afternoon got busier and busier. I was going to be travelling for work on Sunday evening but would I be able to do then all the things that needed to be done for Monday? It was touch and go. Why, my boss wanted to know [from her car as she made good her escape to check out where the G8 will be staying – let the record show that she worked to midnight last night] was I scooting off so early? Because I want to get my hair cut. How many more people do I have to explain my movements to? All people entitled to ask and with only my best interests at heart but I wish there was a little bit of time when I wasn’t accountable to anyone and I could go and get my hair cut then.
The hairdresser put his heart and soul into it and I didn’t get out until 7 at which point poor Mr. Waffle who has a cold had already nobly fed the children and prepared dinner for the grown-ups. I ate it and then I went out to play my tennis match and left him to put them to bed. The guilt. When I got home, he was already tucked up in bed with a lemsip.
