Today Mr. Waffle and I both took the day off work and went walking in the Wicklow Hills leaving the children to the care of school and childminder.
It was very pretty:
But rather cold:
And boggy:
We spent some time recovering by the fire here.
Old Testament and New
Princess: What’s Passover?
Me: Why?
Her: It’s on my Lenten calendar.
Me: Oh right, well you know the plagues of Eygpt, locusts, frogs, rivers of blood and so on?
All three children: YES!
Me: Well the last thing was that God said he would kill all the first born children of the Egyptians, if they wouldn’t let the Israelites go.
Daniel (in shock): GOD WHO LOVES US?
Me: Well, yeees…
Daniel: Really?
Me: Weelll, you know, it’s um, anyway, moving on, the Jews ate a special meal and put a mark on the door so that the Angel of Death would pass over their houses, “pass over” get it? Hence Passover.
Daniel: Maybe God was joking and he wasn’t really going to kill them.
Me: Um, yes, maybe he was.
Falling out of Love
I used to love the Dublin Bikes. So handy, so clever, but I’ve gone off it. Today at lunch time I tried to park my bike on Chatham Street (full) Molesworth Street (full), then on to Nassau Street (full), around the corner to Merrion Square (closed for St. Patrick’s weekend fair) and finally berthed my steed on Stephen’s Green (two places). 15 minutes late for luncheon engagement. The weather has improved, I think I will be taking my own bike out of its winter retirement; I can always find a parking spot for it.
Trauma
The cat got spayed on Thursday. We were all a bit disturbed to see a big patch of her fur shaved, a nasty cut with stitches on her flank and a lampshade on her head. She was miserable last night and mostly quiet except for the frantic run around the house when she managed to get her lampshade off and we got it back on again. Mr. Waffle, who pretends not to like her, bought chicken specially for her and she was tempted to try a little bit. She was a bit chirpier on Friday. By today she was pretty much back to normal, but she has to be kept quiet and indoors for 10 days with the lampshade on. Frankly, I can see this proving challenging, she’s taken to sitting by the (temporarily locked) cat flap and mewing pathetically. Poor Hodge.
Before:
After:
This charming man
Daniel knows “The Giant Jam Sandwich” off by heart. And, after spending all night getting youtube to upload the video, you too can see him and be entranced. Particularly, if you are related to him, I suppose.
In other Daniel news, recently he has taken to using the Irish form of Mummy which is MamaÃ. Since he invariably addresses me in the vocative, this becomes “A Mhamai” which is pronounced “awahmi” which is, frankly, rather odd for me, but charming all the same.
Happy Birthday to Me
I am 41 today. As I have been exploring in recent posts, I am feeling my age.
I was in a school last week and, visiting a classroom, the principal asked whether any of the children had any questions for the visitors. The principal pointed to an enthusiastic hand waving child. The child looked at me and said “I want to ask that lady a question.” I smiled in encouragement, “What would you like to ask?” “How old are YOU?” “Why thank you for asking, I’ll be 41 next week, how old are you?” “Six.”
Later in the yard, I saw an older child looking after a younger child who had cut his knee. “Shouldn’t a teacher be doing that?” I asked the principal. “That IS a teacher,” he replied.
Meanwhile, at home Mr. Waffle had the boiler checked. The immediate consequence of this was that the heating wouldn’t work that evening. We called the boiler checking man and Lloyd (really, Lloyd?) left his partner and family and came immediately to our aid. I opened the door to a young person not entirely unlike the child in “Up”. “Hello,” he said, “I’m Lloyd.” “Hello,” I thought “you’re 12, are you allowed to fix our boiler?” Apparently, he left school six years ago. Even if he left school early, he must be at least 22. Is this what 22 year olds look like?
My mother, however, has not been concentrating. “I couldn’t find a card to send you, cards for 40th birthdays are all dreadfully vulgar.” “Mum, I will be 41!” I said. “Will you really?” she replied. You would think that she, of all people, might remember.
