My sister is in Qatar for work. It is 48 degrees. She was outside for ten minutes and a) got sunburned and b) had to take off her watch as it was starting to burn her wrist.
Siblings
Something for the Weekend
Very busy. Dinner party at my sister’s on Friday night; GAA mini-leagues from 9.30 on Saturday morning; quick change into uniforms for the school Feis at 12 (no medals won, Daniel forgot the words to his rather difficult choice, Gugalaà Gug, the judges didn’t go for Michael’s Halloween number and herself refused to take part); then back home to greet a friend and her three children for lunch. I had swooped up the remains of my sister’s dinner party, so at least we were able to feed our guests though, the house, never tidy at the best of times, left a great deal to be desired. When they left, I spent several happy hours weeding. Tragic, I know. Sunday was spent recovering from the excesses of Saturday (including a nasty shoulder ache from my work with the pitchfork in what might as well be called the weed patch) and peering at the rain. Ah, the Irish summer.
In Tents
The Princess and I graced Cork with our presence this weekend. We travelled down on the, very expensive, train and came back by the newly constructed motorway. Well actually, only a stretch of motorway was newly constructed but it completes the Cork to Dublin motorway. The journey, door to door, took us under two and a half hours. When I was young, it used to be easily five hours. As a friend once said to me – whatever they take away from us, they can’t take back our roads.
It’s always nice to go to Cork. I settled into the old familiar routine, leaving the doors open to irritate my father, refusing to let my mother feed sweets to my daughter, stealing my sister’s moisturiser at bed time – do you think she left a tube of leather shoe cream on top of her make-up case on purpose? It’s only harmful, if ingested, but, frankly, it is also sub-optimal when applied to the face.
The Princess and I went to the market to buy dinner and were charged with getting a rack of lamb from Ashley. I was mildly pleased that though I haven’t been there for 20 odd years, he still recognised me and when I consulted with my mother on the telephone, he beckoned me and said “tell her that I have a leg of lamb for €25”. “Are you still in Belgium?” he asked. “No, I’m in Dublin.” He shook his head sadly at the error of my ways. I ran into our fishmonger’s son last time I was back. They had been going for something like 100 years but when Mr. Sheehan retired, none of the children fancied taking it on. There’s a parable there somewhere but I think it needs an Irish Times columnist to develop it fully.
We went into the Crawford for a look at the sculpture and a cup of tea. I made her walk around the plaster cast of the Torso Belvedere but she was much more taken with a 19th century statue of Hibernia. I once attended a lecture on sculpture and the lecturer said two things which have given me much pleasure and I will now share them with lucky old you: 1. sculpture is three dimensional, always walk around a sculpture to appreciate it fully, 2. sculpture is heavy and often, the sculptor will have to put something behind the subject’s legs so that it is not too heavy to stay upright. At its most uninspiring this is a tree stump or column – visible in this statue on Dublin’s main street but it can also lead to more exciting flights of fancy. On this occasion, our reward for circling Hibernia was to find her dog’s tail sticking out the back of her chair.
When we got to the cafe, I felt peckish. There was a full Irish breakfast on the menu. I ate it. I regretted this. No sooner did we get back to my parents’ house than herself announced to everyone that her mother had eaten more than she had ever seen consumed in one sitting and proceded to enumerate the full contents of the Irish breakfast. This led to all manner of anxious questions. “Was I not being fed properly at home?” “Was there something that should be bought in anticipation of my arrival?” So impressed was my child with my enormous intake that she also reported it to her father when she returned to Dublin the following evening. I feel like some kind of circus performer.
On Sunday afternoon, we were scheduled to drive back to Dublin with my sister. The question of my little family inheriting the parents’ tent has been canvassed (ha ha) over the past number of months. On Sunday afternoon, my sister said, “You should take the tent, it’s now or never.” Why did I believe her? Bits of the tent were everywhere – in one wardrobe, on top of another and – insert drumroll – in the attic. As I stood at the top of the attic ladder holding a bunch of poles while my mother’s and my daughter’s anxious faces peered up at me, I knew that I had made a mistake. My sister had disappeared to deal with some particularly intractable problem related to the start-up menu on the parents’ computer. Mercifully, she came and rescued the poles, only slightly hindered by her niece who had lodged herself on the bottom steps of the ladder. As well as the tent, my mother pressed upon me two sleeping bags and two fold up beds. There was a lot more kit that I wouldn’t let her give me. Partly because my sister’s car is a Golf and there is only so much camping equipment you can fit in a small VW. Partly because I worried my husband would kill me. I then realised that I had no idea what the tent looked like up. My mother suggested that we should pitch it in the garden so that I could see. Two principal objections presented themselves: 1. It was raining; 2 I was hoping to get home before nightfall. My father searched his files for instructions and though I saw directions for putting up the trailer tent over his shoulder (sold ca. 1995 – a real pain to put up), but of the instructions for the, I am assured, 6 man tent I took away yesterday, there was no sign. The only information I have is that the two longer poles go into the ground first and after that it is all intuitive. Mr. Waffle and I are going to try pitching it next weekend and I fear that it will not prove intuitive as rain threatens and three small children ask repeatedly “Can I help?” My mother who, in her heart of hearts, cannot believe that I am a grown-up, said to me anxiously “You won’t be foolish enough to put it away wet, will you?”
And in other news, the cat had her adolescent health check. Yes, really. The vet says that the cat needs to go on a diet. She is not going to enjoy that.
My Vocation
My sister often asks me for advice as to where she should eat in Dublin. I sent her to Alexis in Dun Laoghaire and got this text message “Hi, restaurant was great. Give up current job and provide restaurant recommendations. There is where you skill lies.” Having just had a report I wrote massacred by a committee, I am inclined to think that she might be right.
Recovering
I’ve been saving this up until I could get back online.
One Saturday afternoon, the Princess went out with a friend and his mother for a birthday treat, Mr. Waffle went to the supermarket, I cut the grass and the boys played upstairs with a little girl who lives on our road. Later that evening, after the children had eaten dinner I went upstairs to dress to go out. It was only then that I discovered that my sons and their little visitor had taken off the shelves, out of baskets, out of cupboards and out of wardrobes everything their little four year old mitts could reach. In all the bedrooms. The Princess’s room was knee deep in tat. I couldn’t even open her door. I roared at the two boys. They lay on the ground and bawled contrition. I continued to roar at them. I was so furious that I STILL don’t feel bad about that. At this point the babysitter arrived and asked, in awed tones, whether we had taken photos. As we had to leave, our priority was to clear a path to the beds so that the children could get into them at some point later in the evening. I was most displeased. I think that this may well be the boys’ earliest memory.
As though this were not bad enough, the following day we had the Princess’s birthday party. This normally hair raising event passed off relatively peacefully due to the following factors: the party was only two hours long; my sister came to help and made the birthday cake; we hired professional help; one of the invitees was 11 and more like an extra helper than a guest; the weather though not sunny was dry and the children were able to run in the garden; and, all the parents collected their offspring on time.
Much entertainment in the office with stories of colleagues stuck all over Europe under a cloud of volcanic ash; ferries fully booked; general hilarity on the part of those not stuck in Cherbourg where colleagues comprehensively fail to see the humour. All back to normal now. Until the next Icelandic volcano.
Planning for my husband’s 40th birthday
September, 2009
Swear sister to secrecy and check whether she would mind the children the weekend of March 19-21. She has only recovered from her previous weekend in their company but she is game. Hurrah.
October, 2009
Book flight to Paris, leaving at lunchtime on Friday, March 19 and returning late on Sunday, March 21.
Find out from Mr. Waffle name of pretty hotel in the centre of Paris which we have often passed but where we have never stayed. I do this on the pretext that my sister is going on one of her many exciting weekends away. He is fooled and gives me the details. Am charmed with myself – cunning! Start saving money to pay for pretty but expensive hotel. Am charmed with myself – saving!
November, 2009
Swear brother to secrecy. Ask him whether he can help sister with babysitting. He cannot. He already has a previous engagement. He suggests I swap for the weekend after which would suit him better. I point out that Mr. Waffle is 40 on the 19th and I have already booked and paid for the flight. “How much did it cost?” said my affluent brother. “You could abandon it and book for the following weekend.” I think not.
December, 2009
Book swish hotel in Paris. Almost expire from strain of not telling husband.
Discover that Aer Lingus may have expired before we can get to Paris at all. Am anguished.
Purchase nice present for sister who will need it after exertions with children. Put it in large bag on chest of drawers in our room. Wonder idly whether husband will notice that it does not depart with usual flock of Christmas presents. As of March 18, he has not. I think we can take it, I’m safe. Daughter on the other hand has several times enquired as to contents and had to be fobbed off.
January, 2010
Ring insurers to put sister on car insurance for the relevant weekend, thereby aiming to prove that I am competent in ways my husband doubts. Insurance company is, alas, less competent and tells me that I can only put her on the week before. Make mental and diary note. Conceal all this from him – am becoming mistress of skulduggery (and Bridget Jones’s poor relation). Begin drafting extensive instructions for sister.
January 11 – Email reliable friend in Brussels looking for advice on Parisian restaurants. She reminds me that it has been 12 years since she lived in Paris (digression here on how old we are) but she will ask reliable colleague for tips. Artlessly try to discuss with husband which restaurants he liked when he lived in Paris. He points out that he was a student and didn’t eat at all for the year he was there due to lack of funds.
January 17 – Tell mother-in-law that I have a secret I want to tell her. She is so relieved to hear that I am not pregnant (may be projecting here), that she rashly promises to support sister in babysitting endeavour by having her and children around for the day on Sunday, March 21.
January 19 – Father-in-law calls me to tell me he has been appraised of plan and has sent me link to a number of Parisian restaurants. Panic as email has not appeared in work and a quick trip to an internet cafe reveals not in gmail either. Could it have been inadvertently sent to husband? Remember sister’s reference to mafia dictum, if you have a secret, only tell one person as then you will know who to kill, if it gets out.
January 19 – Receive this email from brother-in-law:
“We’ve decided to prolong and deepen our bank debt and go skiing en famille in March to Austria, and the folks have said they’d be interested in joining. Dates: 13th march, all other details: TBC. While it’d be great if you could make it, I know you guys have much on your plates, so thought I’d put it out there.”
Feel enormous enthusiasm for skiing trip which also features other children our children’s ages and think about how much deeper in debt I would like to be (recent budgeting exercise has revealed that after all essential expenditure and very mild saving, monthly sum available to me for entertainment, clothes etc is €6) and how I will persuade loving husband to embrace the debt, the enforced absence from school and the various leave problems we might have. Realise, to my horror, that the skiing week is the week of his birthday surprise. Agree with Mr. Waffle that we cannot afford to go skiing (certainly true in any event). He is surprised how easily I fold on this point. Realise that parents-in-law may not be available to help out on Sunday 21, March, if they are flying back from Austria. Express unusual bitterness to Mr. Waffle about ski trip. He is surprised and says – if you really want to go… Am hamstrung by secrecy and turn away muttering “no, no, it’s alright.”
February, 2010
Swear babysitter to secrecy. Pay her to mind the children on Saturday afternoon, March 20, to give my sister a sanity break.
February 12 – Tell husband, who is gloomy, that I have something special planned for his birthday and he is to be sure not to schedule anything for March 19. He seems cheered.
February 18 – Sister calls to tell me that work want her to go to Bahrain (they work on Saturdays there, the misery) but she has resolutely put them off pointing out that she had said that she had something on this weekend in September. “Could you not change?” they persist. “No,” she said, “it is my brother-in-law’s 40th birthday, my sister is taking him to Pairs, they have three small children and they never get away and I have said I will mind the children.” Colleagues wilt in front of this pathetic scenario but she still has to leave at 5 on Sunday afternoon March 21 to fly to Bahrain. Ring babysitter anxiously, will she be able to cover Sunday evening from 5 to 11. She will. Wonder mildly whether my savings will cover all of this.
March, 2010
March 2 – Pick up random present for husband. Dust down set of ornamental bookmarks showing maps of the world which have been sitting in the bottom of my handbag and wrap them with same.
March 3 – Inspect savings to see whether they will cover dinner and hotel. Hurrah, it appears that saving works. As someone new to the world of saving, I am surprised how effective it is. Resist urge to splurge savings on new clothes.
March 4 – Realise to my horror that have still not booked nice dinner in Paris despite extensive research. Spend maddening length of time being tortured by the flash websites all restaurants in Paris seem to favour. Pick restaurant I was originally going to go to making extensive research and inspection of maddening flash websites entirely redundant. Call them. They are closed that weekend. Oh wait a minute, no they’re not. Make my booking for Saturday 20 with some trepidation. Decide that on the Friday night we will wander around until we find a nice brasserie. Wonder will I come to regret this decision when we are wandering around Paris ravenous.
March 5 – Book into online airport parking. Ring husband and employ subterfuge to get car registration number which I have entirely forgotten. Realise husband is very trusting as he swallows my most unlikely fictitious reason for needing same without a blink. Am appalled at cost of airport parking. Clearly, vast savings are going to be insufficient to cover all of my needs.
March 7 – Attend nephew’s 4th birthday party. Attend is perhaps not entirely the correct word as early in the proceedings I slip off to the pub with the papers and the esteemed parents-in-law. Discover that they will not be skiing on Sunday, March 19 and are, au contraire, ready, willing and able to provide baby sitting services – “it’s in the diary” says my father-in-law the captain of industry (retired) reprovingly. My heart soars but not half as much as my sister’s when I tell her the glad tidings.
March 8 – Check hotel still has my booking. Supercilious French woman confirms that, yes, she has. Remember to put sister on car insurance. Glow with organisational pride.
March 10 – Write to savings account people (same very old fashioned requires stamp, envelope and signature) and ask that my savings be transferred to current account. Make regretful mental note not to spend BEFORE travelling. Receive extensive supply of travel sized skincare from my sister for my birthday. This sparks the following reflection: how will I persuade my husband only to pack stuff in his washbag which contains less than 100mls and not give away that we are flying somewhere. Ponder this.
March 11 – Run into my husband while going out for a sandwich at lunch. Brilliantly and cunningly bring conversation around to hand luggage for men. He tells me that most bottles of shaving foam don’t hold more than 100mls. He says that the real problem is razor blades. Decide that we will have to buy disposable razors in Paris. Go out to birthday dinner with siblings, receive gifts gratefully including sinfully large voucher from parents which will meet my clothing needs for the foreseeable future. Hurrah, savings are safe. Realise that cat will still be wearing lampshade (following spaying earlier) and require quiet and will not be allowed outdoors when sister is babysitting. Break news of this unfortunate complication to her as tactfully as I can.
March 12 – Father-in-law calls. They are off skiing the following day. He wants to check when he and m-in-law can hand over birthday gift to their first born. Agree that I will dispatch him out to their house on Thursday evening when he will receive 1) present and 2) sealed envelope NOT TO OPEN but to hand to me which will contain various press cuttings on Paris my parents-in-law have been hoarding. Agree that we will speak again on Wednesday 17 when they return from their conquest of the slopes.
Scour house for maps of and guidebooks to Paris of which my husband will approve and secretly squirrel them away in an overnight bag. Wonder whether I should tell him our destination as he will certainly have random metro tickets which he will be disappointed not to have the opportunity to deploy. Decide that surprise is better – may be projecting at this point.
March 13 – Tell misfortunate sister that she will have to bring own food with her for children as, if I start buying excess fish fingers/pizza etc. in weekly shop, husband may suspect we are abandoning children (part of our parenting contract is that they are filled to the brim with junk food whenever we go away). Unlikely, as he has proved remarkably unsuspicious to date but, better safe than sorry.
March 15 – Text super-reliable babysitter to confirm that she is still on for w/end. She takes a worryingly long time to respond. But she is.
March 16 – Take day off work for walk in the hills with husband to celebrate my birthday (extended celebration, is there a problem with that?) Tell him that we are actually going away for the weekend to a secret location for his birthday. Encourage him to pack for two nights and three days. Tell him that he can only use nice bag as destination very smart (nice bag is small enough to be hand luggage – admire my cunning) Do not reveal destination. Put him off the scent by saying we will be driving north when we leave the house. Am beside myself with excitement. He is delighted at the prospect of time alone together. In fact, he says he would be happy, if our destination were the B&B at the top of the road. Then he wonders who will bring back the library books, curse myself that I have not thought of this. Inform the children that we are going away for the weekend and they will have – drum beat – their Aunty Helen to mind them. They are delighted.
March 18 – Phone call from esteemed parents-in-law freshly returned from their skiing holiday. Husband is to go to them for dinner tonight and they will hand over a present and, possibly, a sealed envelope for me containing further Paris information. Warn mother-in-law that if she or f-in-law breath a word to husband about w/end I will murder them both. She promises not but says that as soon as he is out the door, she and f-in-law will hug each other and say “Paris, Paris”. Acquire random books which sister can use to placate daughter on the weekend, if she tires of Club Penguin. Acquire small gifts for children to hand over to their loving father. Print out boarding passes at work. Print out hotel details. Remember to bring these home with me. Filch husband’s passport from drawer where it is kept. Hope he will not notice and assume it has been stolen. Paranoid fear of his. Remember to leave car keys in envelope for sister along with extensive instructions and books for herself. Exhausted from remembering effort. Realise that we do not have travel insurance. No longer care. Panic briefly that the clocks are going to change on Sunday and confuse me. They are not. Pull out something from the freezer for sister to tempt childish appetites tomorrow. Finish off this post and put it on the internet to come up tomorrow afternoon. Shortly, I will print it off and put it in my overstuffed handbag.
March 19 (this part is guesswork) – His birthday. Children hand over cards and mild presents. Deliver children to school. Return home, change sheets for sister (very important, will not forget under ANY circumstances) pack everything into the car. If we have time, head to local cafe for breakfast and hand husband random small present. Back into car, as it becomes obvious that we are driving to the airport, ask husband to speculate where we are going. Try not to crash the car in advanced state of excitement. When he cannot guess, hand him the print out of this post and hope he likes it. Fingers crossed.
