My sister-in-law is half Italian. She was born and grew up in Dublin and aside from looking a bit exotic and dressing beautifully she seems entirely local. The other night over dinner we fell to discussing clothes. I asked her whether she ironed her jeans. She does. And she seemed genuinely appalled that there are people who don’t. Gentle reader, do you iron your jeans?
Weekend Round-Up
The weekend was filled with excitement. Mr. Waffle’s sister came home from London with her fiancé [the man my children are calling Pruncle – short for pre-uncle obviously] and we all got to congratulate them and admire the ring. Although many details in relation to the wedding remain unsettled, the role of the flower girls has been discussed at considerable length and is the source of great joy to herself. Upon my asking Pruncle whether they intended to have lots of cousins at the wedding, he said “Well, I have no cousins, my parents are both only children.” He then cast a slightly nervous glance around the teeming masses of people in the room and said, “All this is quite new to me.” And then he had to play football in the garden for ages which was both virtuous and, I suspect exhausting. When driving home, I commented to the children how odd it was that both of Pruncle’s parents were only children. Michael was particularly fascinated by this and it was only when he asked why Pruncle’s parents weren’t grown-ups that I realised why.
On Sunday, Daniel really got the hang of cycling and is able to start by himself often – though not always.
The Princess is now an old hand at her prayers of the faithful at mass and she loves it. At the start of mass, five children were brought up for a first annointing – a new ceremony (well post the baptism of my children anyhow) which extends the baptism process over two Sundays. “This will take forever,” I muttered bitterly. Michael, of all people, said, “Mummy, don’t be mean, it’s nice to see new children being welcomed into the church.” I felt suitably chastised. After mass there was tea and a biscuit in the sacristy for those who were so inclined and the Princess and I may have been inveigled into joining the church choir.
In the afternoon, in response to Michael’s repeated requests, we went to a games shop in town. There you can buy horrifically expensive very tiny models which you need to paint and assemble yourself and use them to play games so complex that the rules can’t be explained in a normal lifetime. There were two ten year olds there who had to come into the shop to play because they couldn’t understand the rules after 2 years of playing with the models. I really can’t see the attraction myself but the boys were transfixed. I see shoals ahead.
We wrenched them away from the Games Shop and took them to the Dublin Book Festival. My expectations for this were pitched low. We had tried to book tickets for a number of the children’s events and failed. I suspected that we might arrive to find that access was only by ticket holders to a session for adults chaired by Ireland’s cultural commentator in chief, Fintan O’Toole. I was quite prepared to sell the whole thing to the children as a walk up and down the quays.
However, the venue was open and it was lovely and really interesting to look around. Upstairs, there were books for children to read and beanbags to sit and read them on.
There was a treasure hunt and each child who did it [and to my certain knowledge one who didn’t] got a bag containing bookmarks, two sweets and a small book. While the Princess was reading her book she looked up to see a woman staring at her. When she caught the Princess’s eye, the woman said, “I wrote that.”
They had this man called Niall de Burca do a storytelling session. He was phenomenal and the boys absolutely loved him. I have never seen them so engaged and entertained by a live performer. I know he’s an artist but I really wanted to ask him, “Do you do birthday parties?” I have never seen a group of children so entranced and he was at it for ages.
All in all, what with one thing and another, it was a busy weekend.
Did You Have a Good Day at Work?
I got an email from an old friend today commenting that he thought I would enjoy seeing him damned with faint praise. I thought you might too. Might I point out that he is terribly clever with vast experience so that you can suitably appreciate this also. Relevant line in italics.
Dear all
Following the various meetings which have taken place recently on the.., I write to invite you to a discussion on [X]. [A], who is working on …has identified the very strong potential for … prioritisation arising from the…work currently under way.
We are fortunate that [B] is able to attend the meeting and bring his considerable expertise to bear. [My friend] will also be there (thank you for arranging the room).
Regards
In other news, Mr. Waffle is, even as I write, attending the residents’ association AGM. I sped him off with the anxious words, “Try not to get elected to the committee.” Yes, I’m all about civic engagement; your point?
Definitely Nurture Rather than Nature
Herself had a spelling test in school and was the only child in the class who could spell “accommodation” correctly. “How did you know that?” asked her teacher. “My grandfather’s students could never spell “accommodation” and he drilled it into my mother and then she insisted that I suffer in the same way.”
Worst First Thinking
On the Free Range Kids blog they have a category described as “worst first thinking”. Essentially, it’s the idea that when looking at a whole range of possible outcomes, the first that is considered is the worst even if it is the most unlikely.
I was put in mind of this when Mr. Waffle went to photograph traffic chaos at the local school at 9 in the morning. The residents’ association is appealing to the council for a better traffic management plan [don’t mock, someday you too will be in your 40s and a stalwart of the local residents’ association]. He was approached by a man wearing a fluorescent jacket of power wanting to know why he was taking photographs of the children. When Mr. Waffle was able to re-assure him that he was taking photos of the traffic [and, obviously enough, had photographic evidence to prove it], the man was very pleasant and obliging, explaining the measures which the school had taken to address the issues. But it did strike me that there was a certain amount of paranoia in evidence. The principal in my children’s own school though in many ways terrific also has a slight streak of paranoia about this. The school yard is visible from the windows of a nearby hotel and the children are told not to go too near the hotel side of the yard lest they be photographed by the hotel guests. This seems an extremely unlikely contingency to me.
In a sort of related issue, a colleague of mine lives in one of Dublin’s more affluent suburbs and there have been a number of burglaries in her estate. Most recently a widow who lives across the road met the burglar who was doing the house next door and he threatened her with a gun. I appreciate that this is terrifying but I am not sure that the solution, as suggested by my colleague is a good one. She is encouraging the widow not to answer the door without checking who it is first, ideally by intercom. The neighbours are also going to look at putting gates on the estate. The guards have advised that gated estates get burgled less. I suppose this may be true but I am not sure that it is so good for social cohesion to bar admittance in this way.
That’s enough about the end of society for one evening.
Getting Bigger
About a month ago we gave up reading bedtime stories to the boys and just let them hop into bed with their own books; the end of an era. I am torn between sorrow and joy.
