My Aunt: When I was younger, I wanted our family to enter one of these family quizzes on the television where you could win a holiday; your father would have been brilliant.
Me: Mmm, he does know everything but I doubt he would have liked the idea much. What did he say to you?
Her: Would you sell your dignity that cheaply?
Rite of Passage
Following a concerted campaign, the Princess has had her ears pierced. I remember getting my own ears pierced at 12 and my father commenting disapprovingly on bodily mutilation and comparing it to the neck rings African women sometimes have which I think was a little harsh.
Herself is, in any event, very pleased.
The ear piercing has led to two unexpected follow-up requests:
1. From her – when can I have my tongue pierced?
2. From Daniel – when can I have my ears pierced?
Very difficult, from a feminist perspective to justify a negative response to question 2; I was reduced to saying “well, we’ll see how you feel about it when you’re 10” and hoping for the best.
Harassed Parent
When I came home from work one day in late June, the childminder said to me : “Your daughter wanted to know the meaning of the word ‘amant’ but I felt it was best if you explained when you got home.” He then left; she was very anxious for an explanation. I was distracted, however, from my difficult task by the sight of a number of small downy feathers floating around the utility room. No sign of the cat either, ominous.
I explained the word “amant” to the Princess asking how this had come up [apparently, the childminder had been scraping old newspaper from the floor – don’t ask – and come across a cutting on the death of Diana and Dodi – thank you British royal family for indirectly introducing my child to the concepts of infidelity and the amant] and was interrupted by a piercing squeal. I ran and added my own piercing squeal as the cat was sitting on the utility room floor tucking in with great gusto to a meal of a small bird. To her intense chagrin [and indeed mine but Mr. Waffle was not yet home so I saw my duty clear] I chased her off it and picked up the bloody corpse in a plastic bag which I swept into the dustpan and then threw in the bin. Moments later I saw that one of the children had put the dustpan and brush on the work surface in the kitchen. It was all very trying. Can I tell you how glad I am that the summer holidays are finally upon us?
Cork Views
The Crawford has just opened a watercolour room and there are some lovely pictures there which I have never seen before. Not entirely relevant to this post but at the moment there is a great exhibition on cubism as well – Mary Swanzy is a revelation to me; I thought her pictures were really lovely [I’m sure that ‘really lovely’ is the kind of accolade the cubists would have liked].
Anyhow, to the watercolours – look at this lovely view of Cork:
The picture by John Fitzgerald dates from 1796 and is described as “Old Saint Finbarr’s and Elizabeth Fort”.
And look at this picture of the same view that I snapped on the walk back to my parents’ house:
Very recognisable, I think, although the old Beamish and Crawford site on the right [now closed down] is obviously not from the 1790s, Elizabeth Fort is still the same and even though the cathedral got rebuilt in the 19th century, it’s still in the same spot.
Now, let us consider one of the great architectural travesties visited on Cork. This is a picture of Cork Opera House before it was burnt down.
My parents remember the much loved 19th century opera house burning in 1955. I once read somewhere words to the effect that any architects who built a replacement would have had their work cut out to build something that the people of Cork would take to their hearts as much as the old building, but they didn’t even try. This feels entirely true. This is the replacement building on the site of the old opera house:
It has actually improved since I was a child as then the side facing the river was an uncompromising brutalist plain wall. It has been somewhat relieved by the addition of a glass window over the river and glass cladding at the front but it is still, to my eyes, quite spectacularly ugly. To be fair, I assume that the 1960s architects did not realise that their clean lines would be disfigured by the addition of a large poster for Grease and the Toyota ad on the roof [a permanent, unlovely feature].
Enough Cork architecture for today.
End of Term
School ended on June 30. I am taking parental leave this summer, so I stopped work also. It has been fantastic to just hang about the house. The last couple of months have been horribly busy. The last week of school/work nearly sent us to an early grave. Every time we thought everything was done, we needed to buy another present for some worthy person associated with the school or work or something else. I had a frantic time at work trying to finish everything. Mr. Waffle kept the show on the road.
During the last week we cycled into school with each of the children in turn. This was an entirely artificial exercise as the parent who was not cycling drove in with the other two and coats and bags and then stuffed the cycling child’s bike in the car to take it home again. However, it was gratifying that they were all able to do it with greater or lesser degrees of enthusiasm. I have put it to them that we might try this greenway thing during the summer and there was mild enthusiasm from two of them. Michael, however, said, “Um, no thanks.” He is very stubborn so I am re-thinking our cycling expedition. I will keep you posted; your summer entertainment is now provided for.
The children all got their school reports. Nothing unexpected really – all good stuff bringing joy to their mother’s middle years [Mr. Waffle is above these things]. The boys’ teacher who has just finished her second year with this class had 6 lines in the report to give a written personal comment on each of the boys and she described both with complete accuracy. I wish the boys could have her next year; she was an absolutely brilliant teacher. I am hoping against hope that the Princess might get her.
As I take parental leave in the summer, I don’t get paid. Also, I don’t need a childminder because I am not at work and can’t afford one. So every year, we hire someone in September and have to let him/her go in June. In recent years, particularly, we have had great people. I am so sorry to see this year’s man go. He was terrific. We gave him an excellent reference and he has got a job in a creche. Lucky creche. I suppose he could hardly starve over the summer waiting for me to re-employ him in September but he seemed a bit of a free spirit and I thought he might go off hitch-hiking in Asia or something and be ready for me again in September but it was not to be. Oh woe. The children are not pleased.
Cultural Activities
Things we have done in the holidays thus far:
St. Michan’s Church on Church Street
I had to practically beat the children to get out of the house to come here. The rain was coming down in sheets and even the short walk from the car to the church had us sodden. But it was so worth it. We have been here before. There are Mummys in the crypt [very dry apparently, unlike outside] and there is a great guide who makes the whole think immensely entertaining for children. They shook hands with the crusader [800 years old still quite a lot of face left – they know he was a crusader because his legs are crossed] and heard the gruesome story of the hanging, drawing and quartering of the Sheares brothers [involved in the 1798 rebellion – ended badly for them]. This was described in loving detail to the intense delight of all the children on the tour. There is also the family crypt of the Earls of Leitrim which has lain unused since the third earl (a bad lot) was buried there. The church boasts the font where Edmund Burke was baptised and the organ on which Handel practised the Messiah before the first performance in Fishamble Street. We ran into the vicar [I think, the titles of Protestant clergymen are always a mystery to me] who asked the children where they went to school and then surprised them by saying he was a neighbour of one of their classmates and horrified them by speaking to them in Irish. After this alarming encounter, they decided that it was best to leave again but not before writing in the visitors’ book. A number of American visitors had described their visits as “awesome” and “amazing”. Michael having laboriously written his name and address went for a more restrained “good”.
The Princess and I walked up and down Henrietta Street and admired the buildings. Number 14 was home to C.S Lewis’s great, great grandmother. I thought you would like to know. We went to the Uilleann Pipers house and had a look around. The boys sat in the car and refused to move.
Subsequently I went on my own to no.14 to see the Dublin Tenement Experience. This is a performance set in the 1913 Dublin lockout and using no.14 Henrietta Street which is largely unchanged since it was used as a tenement. The performance is done by the same people who did “The Boys of Foley Street” so I was prepared to be alarmed and to have plenty of audience participation. Maybe my previous knowledge of the company ruined it for me but it’s just not so real when you are accompanied by a bus load of elderly tourists from Northern Ireland. I thought it was mildly interesting and reasonably well done but I certainly wouldn’t have been gushing that it was the best thing I had ever seen as I heard one of my fellow participants say in awed tones to the woman on reception. Still and all, well worth a look.
Unrelated but as I was there they were filming an ad for C&A. The security man told me that they had been filming for 5 days for a 30 second slot. 5 days! So, if you see a nice old Georgian street in a C&A ad, you’ll know where it was shot.
The Princess and I had previously tried to visit this restored Georgian house but it was closed for renovations. This time we got in and I think she found it mildly entertaining but really more fun for me than for her. Sometimes she is a saintly child. Ironically, the ESB which funded the restoration of this house, knocked down all the rest of the terrace. There is some bitterness about this. It’s interesting though that Irish attitudes at the time were very ambivalent towards Georgian architecture and what it represented. I think now there has been a complete turn around and no one would argue for the wanton destruction of Georgian houses but certainly there’s still plenty of neglect in the centre of Dublin.
I forced the children to go to this world famous monastic site. They haven’t been for a couple of years. The traffic was dreadful. It took us an hour and a half to get there. The information that the American first children had recently been forced to go there left them unmoved other than leading to a slight fellow feeling. When we arrived I made them go on a mild walk.
It went pretty well for the first half but by the second part of the circuit they were getting tired, hungry and fractious. Michael fell down a hill and was picked up by a kindly German tourist. Daniel got stung by nettles. We saw deer but even that was insufficient to rouse them to any great enthusiasm. The Phoenix Park has made them all a bit blasé about deer.
I got to use my picnic basket again. As I was unpacking it, two very small girls stood and watched me enviously. See below, Michael enjoying the picnic which, in his case, consisted of 5 cream crackers.
After the picnic, I played hurling with Dan. Very poorly. A number of Americans stopped and took pictures of this native sport; unfortunately the quality of the play gave very little idea of what hurling is actually like.
After this I tried and utterly failed to get them to the monastic site. This is as close as we got to Glendalough this year.
For the best part of a year, I have been threatening to take my family to this city centre church. Mr. Waffle kindly minded the children one morning and I set off on my own. It is a lovely, lovely church managed by the Office of Public Works in co-operation with the local parish. It’s less showy than St. Patrick’s or Christ Church both of which are nearby but really peaceful and very appealing.
The OPW has done a great job with the exhibition in the oldest part of the original church. There is still an unroofed part – the Portlester chapel – which is somehow particularly attractive in the centre of the city surrounded by very busy roads. It feels like it belongs somewhere else altogether. Petrie has a drawing of it from the 1800s and it is still very recognisable; although no one was hanging out washing while I was there.
I will now force the children to come with me and see it because they have not suffered enough.
