Work

I sent out some CVs. Yes, really, I’m as surprised as you are. I will be even more surprised if they yield results as, to be honest, the jobs are not really in my area of expertise, but it’s a start.

In other news. Poor Princess is ill again. She seems to have picked up a stomach bug at the creche. Alas. However, at the moment she is bashing things in the play pen and seems none the worse for wear. I fear that things may deteriorate as the day goes on. I’ll keep you posted. I’m sure that those of you related to her are interested in my daughter’s stomach bug, the rest of you can skip future bulletins…

Had a very quiet weekend. Saturday night we stayed in. My sister gave us two DVDs for Christmas, assuming that our social life has hit rock bottom and that we need all the indoor entertainment we can get. In this assumption, she is entirely correct. We watched “28 Days Later”.? I’m not sure that I would recommend this to the discerning viewer. Firstly, it’s kind of hard to follow (and, I’m sure, not just for the sleep deprived like myself). Secondly, I couldn’t see it properly cos I left my glasses down in the car and I was too lazy to go and get them (I appreciate that this might not be a negative point for the film especially, but I thought that I’d mention it anyway). Thirdly it’s a bit scary. Not very scary, but a bit. Mr. Waffle and I are easily scared so we watched a lot of the film with our heads stuffed down the back of the sofa and cushions over ears. This was kind of embarassing, because it’s not very scary really. It also made it difficult for us to follow. So even if the lead character went to Pres?(alma mater of the men in my family, not Mr. Waffle obviously as he’s from Dublin, do try to keep up), I am not convinced. Sorry sis.

We went to a party on Sunday afternoon. For some time now, I’ve noticed that I’m becoming my mother. This party made me realise that we are becoming our parents. The place was full of thirty and forty somethings with their offspring ranging in age from 10 years old to 6 weeks old. The adults stood around chatting while the children hared up and down the stairs. This is just the kind of thing my parents used to drag me to. Of course, I intend to stop taking the Princess before she turns 14 and tells me that she hates me and doesn’t ever want to come to a party with me again. Good intentions, hmm, but really, I know I’ll be saying “Come on now, you might enjoy it, there’ll be lots of nice boys there who you’ll enjoy meeting”. Worse, I’ll believe it.

Last night we let our baby cry. Twice. It was tragic. We rescued her from her cot the other three times, so doubtless, we are giving mixed messages and she will never learn. I am steeling myself for more of this tonight otherwise we’ll still be getting up 6 times a night and patting her on the back when she turns 18. Or so says Gina. Gina is bitter about her own mother who never ensured that she got to bed on time. Gina has been a poor sleeper all her adult life as a result. So she says. Mr. Waffle points out that her choice of nursing as a profession may not have helped much either.

In other news. My displacement activity level has reached herculean proportions. Our Princess is going to the creche a couple of hours a day so that I can concentrate on looking for a job. We have been back in Belgium three days and not one CV has winged its way to a prospective employer. On Tuesday, I had no car and it was pouring rain. Our creche is spectacularly inconveniently located and is really too far to walk. Particularly in a downpour, so the Princess stayed home and no CVs were sent. On Wednesday, I decided to find milk for Mr. Waffle. He likes fresh, pasturised milk and it is hard to find in Belgium. I went to our regular supermarket first. Mr. Waffle had checked it out the previous day and said there was none. I was convinced he had looked in the wrong place and went back to check. I am becoming my mother. I know this. Mr. Waffle was correct. There was no milk. I went to another two supermarkets still looking for milk. I bought a small number of purchases in each (thus ensuring that I stood in three seperate queues) and, you will be delighted to hear, in the third supermarket I visited one of these purchases included milk. This took two and a half hours and what with the creche being so spectacularly inconveniently located, it was time to collect Princess Waffle and no CVs were sent. Today, was the second last day of an exhibition for which I bought tickets before Christmas. If I don’t go today, I will never go, I said to myself. I went today. It has been extended until the end of January. Were any CVs sent out today? Go on, have a guess.

So for tomorrow’s displacement activity, I have lined up a series of tasks. Most of them involve skiing preparation. When this skiing trip was mooted, I thought “fantastic, I will be so cool and trendy bringing my baby skiing, it’s going to be marvellous”. Now, I think, “are you mad woman?? Eight hours in a train with a ten month old?” And back. And furthermore, my friend (hmm what name will I give her? she has Welsh connections, perhaps Blodwyn but then on the other hand, I am anxious that she speak to me again, we will settle on Rosie, as she is English) Rosie whom I visited today expressed the view that it is probably too late to book creche places at the resort now. This is very alarming. Rosie is, perhaps, a smidgeon more organised than I am. Her son has just started school and she tells me he is to finish at 3.30 every day next week. Although there is no documentation to that effect. She worries her legal training has made her over meticulous, her first thought was “How can I believe it if it’s not on paper?”. Anyway, she has scared the bejaysus out of me and I am going to ring the resort tomorrow. That could take a couple of hours. If there is no creche place, there will be much unhappiness chez Waffle.

Am off to bed to stare at the ceiling and listen to piteous cries from my baby daughter.