The Princess loves Hodge.
She spends her time poking Hodge in the eye and putting her hand, daringly, in the cat’s mouth.
When she is not carrying her around.
I tell her to put the cat down and leave her alone. But, surprisingly, the cat sticks to her like a limpet.
Still, Hodge sometimes likes to get a good tree between her and us.
Also she sleeps with a gun under her pillow, just in case.
Incidentally, did I mention that Mr. Waffle finds himself speaking in French to the cat which is hilarious.
Mr. Waffle
The Wireless
My mother always calls the radio “the wireless” and now technology has caught up with her again. My loving husband got me a brilliant radio for Christmas. It does normal, it does digital and it does internet radio. It’s fantastic. No more cricket on radio 4 for me. Manic cackle. I can choose stations by country, by genre, by whatever you are having yourself really. I listened to a US comedy channel, an NPR end of year special and Bel RTL and I didn’t bother with Money Box Live (if you have to ask, lucky you).
Now, internet, my friend, do you have a favourite radio station – local, regional, national – something you would recommend to someone with a brand new Roberts radio. If yes, please, please tell me what it is and I will tune in.
A martyr to grammar
My husband is doing a bit of occasional lecturing work to keep us from starvation. He gave his students an essay recently. The texts are now in and it appears that the majority of his students are completely illiterate. His last lecture of the term focussed on what is likely to come up in the examination in January. He prefaced it by announcing that the thing most likely to increase their success in the examination was gaining a working knowledge of the use of the apostrophe. “How did they take that?” I asked. “They only started writing when I told them the topics they needed to cover for the examination.” I understand that Sophocles had similar problems with the younger generation.
Meanwhile, I too suffer for my love of grammar. Consider the following email exchange.
From: Former colleague A
To: Former colleague B
CC: Me
Subject: Lunch
I had mentioned to Anne we were meeting up and took the liberty of asking her along on Tuesday – is that ok with you? We can always gag her if she keeps talking about Cork!
From: Former colleague A
To: Me
Subject: Lunch
[In response to indignant reply from me]. So, is next Tuesday, ok?
From: Me
To: FCA
Subject: Lunch
Good.
From: FCA
To: Me
Subject: Lunch
Is that an endorsement of my literary style, a reflection of inner well being, or an indication of attendance?
From: Me
To: Former colleague A
Subject: Lunch
No, no and yes.
From: Former colleague A
To: Me
Subject: Lunch
How dare you insult my writings
From: Me
To: Former colleague A
Subject: Lunch
You forgot the question mark.
From: Former colleague A
To: Me
Subject: Lunch
I see your own literary style still tends to pedantic.
Mr. Waffle’s Moment of Truth
Daniel: Is there actimel in my lunch box?
Mr. Waffle: No, but there is fruit: grapes and apple.
Daniel and Michael in chorus: I don’t like grapes.
Mr. Waffle: No Michael, there is a banana for you.
Michael: I don’t want a banana.
Mr. Waffle: Well, Michael, every day you get a banana for school and it doesn’t come home so, I assume, something happens to it in school.
Michael: Yes, I put it in the bin.
And in today’s link section, an appealing post by a woman whose school sandwiches are never rejected because (insert really terrified gasp here), she homeschools her children.
No better man
My husband is a saint. On Thursday afternoon the childminder was sick, he stepped into the breach and picked up the children from school and minded them (the disadvantage of being self-employed is that you tend to be more available for domestic crises than your office bound spouse). While he was at it, he left in the man from the cable company who fixed our television (he also rang them and stayed on hold for hours to get this service). On Thursday night, a friend of mine came to stay the night. I met her in town and we went for dinner while Mr. Waffle continued to tame children at home. When we got back about midnight I discovered that he had tidied the house within an inch of its life. I slightly undermined the effectiveness of this by exclaiming to my friend in tones of awe: “It’s so tidy, I can’t believe it.” Due to the absence of a spare room in our lives (sigh), my friend was sleeping in the Princess’s room. Mr. Waffle had blown up an air mattress, upended the Princess’s bed to make room for it and even put out towels and fresh soap in the bathroom. I nearly died of happiness.
I had thought that my friend was leaving on Friday but discovered that she was leaving on Saturday and staying at a nasty airport hotel on Friday night. I felt that our air mattress was bound to be better and offered it to her. She accepted. Unfortunately, on Friday night I had a work reception followed by a concert for which my sister had already purchased tickets (the Coronas, alright, since you ask). So on Friday, my saintly husband picked up the children from school (as it was closing early), minded them from 12 to 2 (the disadvantage of being self-employed again), then left them in the care of the child minder. He returned home at 6.30, fed the children, put them to bed, tidied the house and then fed and entertained my friend.
Did I mention that every week day morning he gets up at 7 to make sandwiches for the children for school?
How lucky am I?
Cross-cultural confusion
Michael: Christmas is Jesus’s birthday.
Me: Yes, that’s right.
Michael begins to cry.
Me: What’s wrong?
Michael: That means Jesus gets all the presents.
Me: No, no, the baby Jesus loves us all so much that he wants all the children to have presents.
Princess: And Santa delivers the presents with help from his brother Saint Nicolas and his sister the Befana.
