Herself (who has been elected to a national student body and is talking about a workshop): One of the boys in my group was a bit mean about Irish.
Mr. Waffle: How?
Her: He said that it was a dead language and why did we bother learning through it.
Mr. Waffle: What did you say?
Her: I said that they studied Latin at his school and it was a lot more dead and he didn’t seem to have a problem with that.
Mr. Waffle: Incendiat.
Farewell Thou Good and Faithful Servant
We sold our car. We bought it in Belgium in 2005 just before the boys were born.
It suffered for us, taking three small children on holidays.
It allowed the Princess to have her own private domain in the boot for many years until she got too tall for it last summer.
We agreed to sell it just before we left Belgium, and when we went to deliver it to the purchaser the day before we left, he wanted an extra €1,000 off what we had agreed and Mr. Waffle walked away. It was a gesture I think he subsequently regretted. We brought the car back to Ireland and decided to drive it into the ground as we would never be able to sell it as the steering wheel was on the wrong side. In fact, that wasn’t half as awkward as you would have thought, except for car parks.
And on the plus side, the car served as a cat shelter in the year of the snow.
And the cat liked to sit on the dashboard as well.
It was spacious.
It took many, many journeys on ferries.
But it was made in 2004 and 12 years is very old for a car. We decided to sell it before the annual car test. We picked up the new car yesterday. Our heartless neighbour’s child with whom we have a car pooling arrangement for GAA got a lift in the new car this afternoon and pronounced it far superior to the old one.
If we hold on to the new one for as long as we kept the last one, all the children will be grown up when we get our next car which is a sobering thought.
Identity Theft
All this 1916 centenary commemoration has got me thinking a bit about identity. Recently, I realised that all my grandparents were born British citizens. At least three of them vigourously did not want to be, but they were all the same until well into adulthood. If you had asked me six months ago what nationality my grandparents were, I would have answered “Irish” unhesitatingly. I now realise that would have been only partly true and that is very strange to me.
I said it to my aunt and she said, “Ah no, they weren’t really British”. National identity is quite the complex thing, isn’t it?
Increases in the Cost of Living
The Princess is very pleased with her new phone but it is not without its drawbacks.
We passed an advertisement on the street and she said bitterly “Vodafone 4g is not bringing me closer to Irish rugby it’s bringing me closer to bankruptcy.” It’s all good preparation for the woes of adulthood.
Nervous
I had lunch with a friend yesterday and she asked me how I had told my children about the Trump presidency. “I kind of let them draw their own conclusions,” I said.
But on foot of that I was talking to them this evening and asked them what they thought. They started to sing “Duck and Cover“. This is a song which we heard when we visited the war museum in Caen a couple of years ago and it has stayed with us for its hilarious understatement of the effects of a nuclear bomb. It’s from a US public safety video from the 1950s. Herself stopped singing and said, “But now we know that hiding under school desks is not going to save us from the nuclear bomb.”
“Well,” I said, “remember [very tall Dutch friend] who works inspecting nuclear power generators?” “Yeah,” she said, “sitting under the desk is definitely not going to work for him.” “No, no, it’s just that he said that radiation goes for the thyroid and the most serious damage is done straight after the blast. If you take iodine tablets straight away, then your chances of survival are pretty good.”
Reassuring. I thought you would like to know. I think I was right that the children had drawn their own conclusions about the Trump presidency though.
Bitter, Bitter, Bitter
The boys found the classic “Owl Babies” on the bookshelf. It’s the story of three baby owls waiting for their mother to come home. Looking through it, Daniel said “They’re like us; an older girl, a middle boy and a younger boy.” They looked nostalgically at the illustrations for a while, then Michael piped up, “Not really, because the eldest owl isn’t playing on her mobile phone.”
The Princess got a phone as an early Christmas present from her uncle and aunt and we have not determined what the rules are about usage and into this vacuum has seeped 24 hour usage by herself and an ocean of bitterness on the part of her brothers. Not our finest parenting hour, something will have to be done. Sigh.
