I found this taped to the boys’ bedroom door the other night:
There’s an obscure joke to be made about this and this post on the Schengen area on Jon Worth’s blog; I’m too tired to make it. Fill in the gaps yourselves there now.
Testing my Readership: Is There Anybody Out There?
Recently, I ran into a friend who lives abroad and who is a faithful reader of my blog. My own brother when I asked him whether he read it said, “I only look at it for the pictures, really”. [Does this make it the opposite to Playboy?]
I found myself wondering are there more people reading my blog who I know in real life or more people who I wouldn’t recognise if I passed them in the street.
Would you like to identify yourself as known or unknown in the comments? Is this an unashamed plea for comments after a month of blogging? Could be, I suppose.
Are we glad the whole NaBloPoMo is over for another year? All together now, “Oh yes, we are!” Lord, is it pantomime season already?
Comfortable
My brother stayed with us on Saturday night. I stayed up until midnight arguing with him about the economy. Then I put him on the floor in a sleeping bag. During the night the air mattress deflated. The cat sat on his head. He asked whether there could have been two cats in the room. There could have been; the neighbour’s cat has worked out how the cat flap works. At 7, the cat began miaowing loudly and insistently for her breakfast. At 7.10 she was joined by Michael who got his breakfast and ate it beside his uncle’s inert body. When I came down at 9.30, I told my brother he had to get up as we were going out at 10.30 and if he wanted a lift, he would have to be ready. About 10.20, he said that he might just let us go and walk into town by himself later.
Shortly afterwards, I was speaking to my sister and asked her whether she had been speaking to my brother since his stay. “Did he say anything?” I asked. “Only that the sooner you got a new house, the better.”
Cultural Differences
It is the end of GAA training until after Christmas. The young men from the under 8s are invited to a Christmas party. Last Saturday was the deadline for paying for the party. I brought my money dutifully. Another mother whom I know from our time soldiering together on the side of the pitch arrived rather late and handed over her money and appeared to be scurrying away again. “Are you off already?” I asked in surprise. “Yes,” she said, “[the GAA under 8 boy] and his sister are both sick in bed.” And off she went, looking quite harassed. When I related this to Mr. Waffle we both marvelled at the trouble that she had gone to and as one said, “Of course, she’s English.” Later in the week the inevitable email arrived: 57 boys have been signed up for the party but only 36 have paid, can the others bring their money on the day?
Do You Find this Surprising?
From a review of “Gonta” by Alex Hijmans in the Irish Times – “This first collection of short stories in Irish by the multilingual Dutchman Alex Hijmans is set in Salvador, in Brazil, where he lives.”
Mr. and Mrs. Didactic Take Their Children to Town
On Sunday morning, we went to see “Ernest et Célestine”:
It was lovely. However, the IFI, in it’s wisdom not only had subtitles but had the sound slightly lowered and someone reading out the subtitles in English. I found this approach deeply unsatisfactory. Looking around the cinema, it seemed to me that the vast majority of the young patrons were either francophone or able to read. While it was undoubtedly a good approach for the small minority who were unable to read or speak French, it ruined it for everyone else. It’s actually surprisingly hard to concentrate on a film when it is in French with English subtitles which are read aloud.
In the row behind us there was a woman with her 11 grandchildren. With great fanfare each of them received sweets of some kind. One grandchild was sent to the Spar to get extra bottles of water to carry them through the 90 minutes of the film. Our lot, seeing the largesse being distributed at great length in the row behind asked whether they were going to get anything. “No, it’s 11 in the morning,” I said tartly. To be fair to them, they accepted this despite the ongoing distribution of bounty in the row behind for the duration of the film. Bah, humbug, I know.
After lunch in Milano’s – the excitement – we went off to see the launch of Bliain na Gaeilge. This was something of a damp squib. A cold nasty rain was raining and the Irish dancers and traditional musicians were huddled under a small awning. A number of young people were speaking Irish enthusiastically and the children spoke Irish for long enough to get the following: their faces painted and a balloon, notebook, pen and highlighter each. They were touchingly delighted by their haul of free goodies. We decided not to wait to see the Lord Mayor and battled driving wind and cold rain back to the car. Honestly, the children love it really.
