Herself: What is your life expectancy?
Me: I don’t know. Don’t worry, it’s really long.
Herself: What exactly?
Me: It’s an average, you know, I could live longer than my life expectancy.
Herself: But what is it?
Me: Maybe 80.
Herself: You’re not middle-aged any more then.
Princess
Music to his Ears
Herself: Do you remember that Peanuts cartoon when Schroeder knows all about Beethoven?
Michael: Yes, he knows his date of birth and death and all the things he did in his life.
Daniel: Yes, like how he made himself deaf from listening to his own music.
My Goose is Cooked
We are ready.
Mr. Waffle has picked up the turkey [tomorrow I will cook turkey for the first time – I am hoping the people who say it is a big chicken are right].
The Princess is singing a solo at the carol service tonight [a verse of Away in a Manger] and she is filled with trepidation but at least she is clean and so are her clothes – so a triumph, for me, anyhow. She may also be on television later, or she may be on the cutting room floor [she spoke to camera about what Christmas meant to her but so did winsome 4 year olds so she is pessimistic about making the cut]. We will gather around the television filled with anxious anticipation. Michael is resigned to going to the carol service which he will not enjoy as every time we sing around the house he puts his hands to his ears to “stop them bleeding”. He is also clean. Daniel is singing in the choir. He will be clean as soon as the Grinch is over.
I hope that you have a lovely, lovely Christmas and that at least one of your presents is what you always wanted.
There is NO Pension Crisis or Further Christmas Cheer
Last Sunday we had people around for mulled wine and mince pies from 4 to 6. The invitations specified that children were welcome. Our friends have a lot of children. We totted up that there were 70 odd people here many of whom were 15 or under (nobody between 15 and 35 though, that demographic was clearly at an entirely different party). I quite enjoyed herding mortified teenagers into the utility room and forcing them to speak to each other. We’d put out some beanbags to make it less utilitarian and this was before the pigeon had died a bloody death on the floor so it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Herself had pinned this to the door:
Note correct use of the apostrophe, though clearly following a period of reflection.
I deployed herself and her friends to wend through the crowds offering mince pies and cocktail sausages. A friend of Mr. Waffle’s reports the following conversation:
Friend: Is that panettone*?
Herself: No,it’s stollen*.
Friend: Is it nice?
Herself: Well, it has marzipan; some people don’t like it or are allergic to it.
Friend: I’ll try some.
Herself: On your own head be it.
*It’s far from panettone and stollen that we were reared.
Santa visited the school. Not the real Santa, you understand; just a man from up the road with a luxuriant beard. Nevertheless, at mass this morning when it came to the sign of peace, Michael jumped a mile when the man in the seat behind poked him in the ribs and said “Ho, Ho, Ho”. Yes, indeed, substitute Santa was at mass this morning. Herself had been muttering bitterly that Santa was a sexist cad as he gave the girls knitting and the boys small table footballs but since she had managed to persuade someone to swap with her (unlikely but true) my hopes that she wouldn’t raise the issue with substitute Santa in the church porch were realised.
Last, but my no means least, there is a man I found on the internet who explains wordpress to me. He did a bit of work on my blog [this here is a technical masterpiece, I’ll have you know]. I asked for a bill for his latest labours and this is the reply that I got:
All done. Very easy.
Instead of paying me, could you throw 10 euro to your favourite charity.
It’s been a bit grim for charities this Christmas as there has been a lot of media coverage about money from fund-raising going to top up already large salaries for senior staff. While this is certainly not true for all charities it has hit them all; the man [volunteer] from the Vincent de Paul who spoke at mass last Sunday found himself obliged to say that none of the money raised in the collection would go to top-ups. I felt for him.
All this notwithstanding, I am feeling a definite Christmassy glow. Today it snowed (well, sleeted); yesterday I went to a party and got a blister on my finger while constructing an IKEA gingerbread house with melted sugar; tomorrow is my last day at work before Christmas. Lucky Mr Waffle and the children finished up on Friday so they will be bonding tomorrow and possibly picking up the turkey while I labour.
It’s all good (apart from the blister).
Christmas Preparations
Early in December, the Princess announced that Saint Nicolas would be coming to our house on December 6. I had thought that since it was 5 years since we last lived in Belgium he might have left the scene but, apparently not. He brought chocolate Santas for herself and Daniel and a chocolate Santa and a packet of cream crackers for Michael. Before the children came downstairs, Mr. Waffle saw the cream crackers and put them away in the cupboard on the basis that Saint Nicolas had made a mistake. In vain, I argued that Saint Nicolas knew Michael. It was only when Michael collapsed in tears on receiving his chocolate Santa (“Saint Nicolas knows that I don’t like chocolate”), that I was vindicated. I flew to the cupboard and threw up the sash open the doors and gave the packet of cream crackers to a delighted Michael. Daniel didn’t like his chocolate Santa either, unfortunately, and there was, as he pointed out, nothing else for him. All I can say is that Santa Claus better deliver on December 25th. The Princess, meanwhile, took custody of all chocolate Santas.
Even as I write, a plum pudding is sitting steaming on the hob where it has been for several days at this point. I just stuck in a knife and it is still not coming out clean. I have made cranberry and orange sauce. We have purchased the Holly Bough and the RTE Christmas Guide. The Princess is half-way through sticking cloves into an orange.
I found this pointed note on some biscuits this evening:
I have ordered a turkey from the butcher with some trepidation. He says to bring it back to him if it doesn’t fit in the oven and he will cut off its legs. My parents-in-law are coming to us for Christmas dinner but they are very light eaters. My sister-in-law (who with her husband was due to come also but now cannot as she is unwell – but on the mend – in London) has pointed out to me, rightly, I fear, that if I am hoping that my esteemed parents-in-law will take some home with them in a Tupperware bowl, I can think again.
We have begun practising Christmas hymns with the church choir. We have visited the moving crib which is startling. It features a series of scenes from the bible but also, a stuffed dog which, when alive, apparently rescued three people from the Liffey.
We are having drinks on Sunday afternoon. If I know you and you were not invited, I am sorry for the oversight, please come.
On Saturday, we are going to get the Christmas tree. When I was a child, my parents would never let us put up the tree until Christmas Eve. The strain of waiting nearly killed us. I remembered, year after year, pointing out all the other people who had trees while we were still waiting anxiously. I am kinder to my children but they are not one bit grateful having been pushing hard for a tree since early December. Our road now has loads of trees up and they look gorgeous.
I have bought many, but, regrettably, nothing like all, Christmas presents. [There is some problem with the syntax of this sentence but I am too tired to care. Feel free to suggest improvements in the comments.]
I have been to two mulled wine and mince pie evening receptions this week already. I have the work Christmas party tomorrow night, followed by a lunch on Monday for a departing colleague.
How are your own Christmas preparations going?
Nomoblopomo
The Princess, her aunt and I went to see Pride and Prejudice in the Gate this evening. It was very long and the lead actors had as much chemistry as a pair of lemons. Disappointing and very tiring.
