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.
Gotcha!
Horrid Henry has a game that he plays with his friends that is modelled on Monopoly. It’s called Gotcha and features dragons’ lairs instead of streets and rubies instead of money but the principles are similar. In an ill-fated moment of inspiration, Mr. Waffle suggested to the boys that he and they might make Gotcha themselves and, with the aid of pictures printed out from the internet, an old packet of Rice Krispies and a Pritt stick, they did.
They, therefore, successfully created a game even duller than Monopoly which one or other of the boys always wants to play but never both together. Mr. Waffle and I have put in many unhappy hours on the Gotcha board. Yesterday afternoon we stayed at home, the weather was inclement. Daniel tired of the rugby on the television and begged to play Gotcha instead so he and I did so. If I never play Gotcha again, it won’t be too soon.
We’re All Going to the Zoo Tomorrow
When I was young, my mother bought a season ticket to Fota. Every Sunday, she would say, “Will we go to Fota?” And every Sunday, we would groan, “Do we have to?” To be fair, I think the wildlife park may not have opened at that point and we were being asked to visit the arboretum and gardens rather than exotic wildlife every Saturday, so you can see why it might be unappealing.
A part of me knew that buying a season ticket to Dublin Zoo would see me repeat my mother’s experience and so it is. Now the prospect of a trip to the zoo is greeted with sounds of horrified protest. We’ve only been twice since I got the ticket but something about being able to get in free fills parents with enthusiasm and fills children with an equal and opposite measure of disgust. They don’t actually mind it once they get there, it’s the prospect of going there that fills them with dread. Look, have a picture from the zoo, why don’t you?
Are we all glad that NaBloPoMo is almost over?
Standards
Michael came into our bedroom this morning at 4.23 fully dressed in his school uniform. “I’m ready to go to school,” he announced happily. I lured him into our bed where he chatted merrily. “Would you like to take off your school uniform and put your pyjamas back on?” I asked hopefully. He did not fancy this. Eventually he fell back asleep, fully clothed (including tie, people) and in the morning we got him up and sent him off to school in his slept in uniform. Look, don’t judge, he got to change out of it again at 4 in the afternoon. Sigh.
