The lady walking languidly down Serpentine Avenue had vertiginously high heels. They were red and shiny. Her skirt was short and tight and her hair was long and piled up carelessly on top of her head.
She attracted my attention because she was carrying two little boys. She had a tiny baby on her front in a little strap on carrier. He looked like he was a couple of weeks old. On her shoulders with his hands around her head was a sturdy two year old.
My car was stopped at the traffic lights. “Look boys, look at the lady, aren’t her shoes lovely? How can she do that?”
My children were stunned. They are used to seeing Mothers in gym gear and high heels are consigned to special nights out.
They both stared, amazed and possibly full of admiration. I wasn’t sure what their opinion was. It mattered. I needed to know.
“So guys, what do you think? Is it a bit dangerous?”
My youngest put on a dramatic voice: “Mummy she’s thinking: If I fall, I fall, if I die or the children die, we die, but at least when we die, we have died in fashion!”
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
The Neverending Pile of Laundry
There are many fairytales, myths and legends where the protagonist has to push a rock up the hill forever or spin thread into gold all night. These stories are like the secret torture that most women have to deal with. That torture is "The Neverending Pile of Laundry."
Many of us were slobs when we lived the single life. Laundry wasn't a big issue. We often grabbed something we particularly loved out of the bottom of the laundry basket for a second wear if we had to out in a rush. We only had ourselves to worry about so we could feasibly do all our laundry on one day a week.
Family life has changed all that and we are now enslaved to the washing machine, tumble drier and ironing board.
As a control freak I will not let anyone else near the washing machine. I had a lovely cleaning lady with poor english at the start of my domestic life. Each week I would ask her not to put anything in the machine. Each week she threw in towels, socks and anything else according to her own categorisation with predictable results.
I finally managed to stifle her enthusiasm by showing her a lovely khaki green, silk mix Prada top that I had got for a fantastic sale price in Brown Thomas. I held it against me with tears in my eyes. It had shrunk beyond repair to doll size. I pointed: "Very Expensive - Prada - (showed her the label) Please No Touch Washer"
When people tell me they have five or seven children the first thing I think about is the washing. How do they do it? Do they have staff? Shouldn't they be at home now taking something out of the machine? Do standards slip??
A friend of mine who has no children sends her laundry out to a laundrette. She told me that she can't sleep in sheets that haven't been ironed. It was too shameful to admit that the idea of ironing sheets had never, ever crossed my mind.
As a child growing up in a large family I remember a room that was dedicated to laundry. There were piles of sheets, machines going constantly and lovely warm smell of ironing emenating into the kitchen.
I have tried having the machines in the kitchen and in a separate laundry room and have now decided that having the machines in the kitchen is the best option. I spend loads of time in the kitchen so it's okay to throw in a few loads while I'm talking to friends or in the middle of cooking something. It's not so lonely or boring as going into a separate room. It also means that you tend not to forget about it or leave it all to one miserable day.
There is a huge amount of satisfaction to be had from knowing that all your clothes (including the handwashing, drycleaning, towels and sheets) are clean. Unfortunately because it's a neverending task if you do finish it all you will begin to seek higher standards. The curtains and sofa will suddenly start to look a bit grubby. The neverending pile will continue......
Emma in Canada said...
Laundry is a constant source of irritation in my house, though apparently only for myself. All my kids have to do is bring their laundry down twice a week. They can't be bothered. They are also supposed to put laundry away in the closets and drawers, but again that is not a big priority. So it is just me, washing, drying, folding and putting away laundry for 6. I draw the line at ironing though, unless it is an absolute necessity. I'm a great disappointment to my mother who irons not only sheets but panties and socks.
Many of us were slobs when we lived the single life. Laundry wasn't a big issue. We often grabbed something we particularly loved out of the bottom of the laundry basket for a second wear if we had to out in a rush. We only had ourselves to worry about so we could feasibly do all our laundry on one day a week.
Family life has changed all that and we are now enslaved to the washing machine, tumble drier and ironing board.
As a control freak I will not let anyone else near the washing machine. I had a lovely cleaning lady with poor english at the start of my domestic life. Each week I would ask her not to put anything in the machine. Each week she threw in towels, socks and anything else according to her own categorisation with predictable results.
I finally managed to stifle her enthusiasm by showing her a lovely khaki green, silk mix Prada top that I had got for a fantastic sale price in Brown Thomas. I held it against me with tears in my eyes. It had shrunk beyond repair to doll size. I pointed: "Very Expensive - Prada - (showed her the label) Please No Touch Washer"
When people tell me they have five or seven children the first thing I think about is the washing. How do they do it? Do they have staff? Shouldn't they be at home now taking something out of the machine? Do standards slip??
A friend of mine who has no children sends her laundry out to a laundrette. She told me that she can't sleep in sheets that haven't been ironed. It was too shameful to admit that the idea of ironing sheets had never, ever crossed my mind.
As a child growing up in a large family I remember a room that was dedicated to laundry. There were piles of sheets, machines going constantly and lovely warm smell of ironing emenating into the kitchen.
I have tried having the machines in the kitchen and in a separate laundry room and have now decided that having the machines in the kitchen is the best option. I spend loads of time in the kitchen so it's okay to throw in a few loads while I'm talking to friends or in the middle of cooking something. It's not so lonely or boring as going into a separate room. It also means that you tend not to forget about it or leave it all to one miserable day.
There is a huge amount of satisfaction to be had from knowing that all your clothes (including the handwashing, drycleaning, towels and sheets) are clean. Unfortunately because it's a neverending task if you do finish it all you will begin to seek higher standards. The curtains and sofa will suddenly start to look a bit grubby. The neverending pile will continue......
Emma in Canada said...
Laundry is a constant source of irritation in my house, though apparently only for myself. All my kids have to do is bring their laundry down twice a week. They can't be bothered. They are also supposed to put laundry away in the closets and drawers, but again that is not a big priority. So it is just me, washing, drying, folding and putting away laundry for 6. I draw the line at ironing though, unless it is an absolute necessity. I'm a great disappointment to my mother who irons not only sheets but panties and socks.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Table Quiz Prize
I don't know if being a good contestant at table quizzes means that you're really intelligent or that your head is full of trivia from watching too much TV. If we’re winning the quiz it's the former, if we're losing it's definitely the latter.
The School held a table quiz on Sunday afternoon. The kids were really keen to go. It was supposed to be a "family table" so there were two of us and the two kids.
We arrived a little late to the vast hall and it was full of tables of families who had added on intelligent uncles, grandmothers and friends to their teams. Some of the tables seemed to have two or three families and one was an intimidating table full of teachers.
Each table had its score written up at the end of each round. We watched our score rise steadily but we never excelled. I had an embarrassing failure of memory when I could only remember three of the four names of the "Sex and the City" characters.
There was a table full of enticing prizes at the top of the hall. It had lots of nice looking bottles and some rugby balls and pens for the kids. I was confident that we wouldn’t go away empty handed.
The winning team collected their prize and there were a good few runner up prizes. I noticed there were still lots of prizes left. My youngest son had been up to look at the prizes a few times and he wanted to buy one of them. I tried to explain that you can’t buy prizes. He quite rightly pointed out that I had told him that one of the Mothers had bought the prizes for the quiz so that we should be able to buy a prize.
The quizmaster handed out prizes for other categories of winners including prizes for the team with the best handwriting, the fastest team at handing back the answers, the best dressed team and the happiest team.
My younger son was getting quite annoyed at this stage. It was his brother’s fault we didn’t get a prize for being the happiest team and my dress sense had lost us the best dressed team prize.
We left empty handed and my younger son was furious. My elder son had got a bit bored during the prize giving and had wisely gone outside to play football (and avoid humiliation) with his mates in the yard.
I explained the categories of winners to my elder son later that night. We got a bit giddy and made up a few silly categories: The hairiest table, the table with the best belchers etc. He said that we should have won the prize for the table with no prize. We both started to giggle.
The School held a table quiz on Sunday afternoon. The kids were really keen to go. It was supposed to be a "family table" so there were two of us and the two kids.
We arrived a little late to the vast hall and it was full of tables of families who had added on intelligent uncles, grandmothers and friends to their teams. Some of the tables seemed to have two or three families and one was an intimidating table full of teachers.
Each table had its score written up at the end of each round. We watched our score rise steadily but we never excelled. I had an embarrassing failure of memory when I could only remember three of the four names of the "Sex and the City" characters.
There was a table full of enticing prizes at the top of the hall. It had lots of nice looking bottles and some rugby balls and pens for the kids. I was confident that we wouldn’t go away empty handed.
The winning team collected their prize and there were a good few runner up prizes. I noticed there were still lots of prizes left. My youngest son had been up to look at the prizes a few times and he wanted to buy one of them. I tried to explain that you can’t buy prizes. He quite rightly pointed out that I had told him that one of the Mothers had bought the prizes for the quiz so that we should be able to buy a prize.
The quizmaster handed out prizes for other categories of winners including prizes for the team with the best handwriting, the fastest team at handing back the answers, the best dressed team and the happiest team.
My younger son was getting quite annoyed at this stage. It was his brother’s fault we didn’t get a prize for being the happiest team and my dress sense had lost us the best dressed team prize.
We left empty handed and my younger son was furious. My elder son had got a bit bored during the prize giving and had wisely gone outside to play football (and avoid humiliation) with his mates in the yard.
I explained the categories of winners to my elder son later that night. We got a bit giddy and made up a few silly categories: The hairiest table, the table with the best belchers etc. He said that we should have won the prize for the table with no prize. We both started to giggle.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
The Wee Stores
The Wee Stores was an old-fashioned little sweet shop squeezed in between the mews houses on Pembroke Lane. As kids we used to go in there the odd time to buy sweets. My memories are hazy but the couple who worked there were old and there was very little merchandise. Whatever they did have was out of date and musty.
Practically all the old mews buildings on the lanes around Ballsbridge have been renovated and expanded. Some of them look like lovely updated versions of the original stone buildings and others are completely unsympathetic, modern and out of keeping with the character of the lanes.
Sheridans have had a lovely delicatessen in the old Wee Stores premises for the past four years and nine months. It has always been well stocked with everything you might need for a good lunch: cheeses, pates, olives, breads, crackers and lovely French lemonade.
Whenever I went in, John, a native Breton with a wonderfully strong accent always had time for a typically obsessive French conversation about food. Maggie and Rossa were equally helpful and charming and always had time to talk and great suggestions too.
On Friday evening Sheridans closed its doors. John and the other staff invited their loyal customers into the tiny shop for some prosecco, canapés, and to say goodbye.
It was a lovely evening and there were lots of friends and neighbours chatting and enjoying an impromptu street party. It made us all wish that it had been a regular event.
All the people who have worked in Sheridans now have plans to continue to work with food in one way or another. I talked to one young man who was absolutely passionate about bread. He plans to start a bakery using very special high quality wheat. He explained in great detail the differences between various types of wheat (apparently Irish wheat is of a very low quality) and his descriptions of what he had discovered inspired me to want to try the best breads made from the best wheat in the world.
Now there’s a little space in Pembroke lane and we all wonder what its next incarnation will be.
Practically all the old mews buildings on the lanes around Ballsbridge have been renovated and expanded. Some of them look like lovely updated versions of the original stone buildings and others are completely unsympathetic, modern and out of keeping with the character of the lanes.
Sheridans have had a lovely delicatessen in the old Wee Stores premises for the past four years and nine months. It has always been well stocked with everything you might need for a good lunch: cheeses, pates, olives, breads, crackers and lovely French lemonade.
Whenever I went in, John, a native Breton with a wonderfully strong accent always had time for a typically obsessive French conversation about food. Maggie and Rossa were equally helpful and charming and always had time to talk and great suggestions too.
On Friday evening Sheridans closed its doors. John and the other staff invited their loyal customers into the tiny shop for some prosecco, canapés, and to say goodbye.
It was a lovely evening and there were lots of friends and neighbours chatting and enjoying an impromptu street party. It made us all wish that it had been a regular event.
All the people who have worked in Sheridans now have plans to continue to work with food in one way or another. I talked to one young man who was absolutely passionate about bread. He plans to start a bakery using very special high quality wheat. He explained in great detail the differences between various types of wheat (apparently Irish wheat is of a very low quality) and his descriptions of what he had discovered inspired me to want to try the best breads made from the best wheat in the world.
Now there’s a little space in Pembroke lane and we all wonder what its next incarnation will be.
Monday, April 21, 2008
The Chocolate Fountain and The Paintball Gun
It's a bit of a minefield when you go to buy presents for other people's kids. It's a good idea to play it safe and buy books for children and adults alike. They are aesthetic and easy to store and dispose. Lego is also a fairly inoffensive present if you know the child likes it.
Recently one of my children got two presents. A Homer Simpson chocolate fountain and a gun that shoots paintballs.
The gun is an environmentally unfriendly piece of plastic that would bring an architect out in a rash and cause you to forfeit your membership of the Green Party.
Guns are now considered really dangerous by some parents because playing with one might turn your child into a serial killer. Then again maybe NOT allowing your boy to play with guns might turn him into a killer because he won't get a chance to express his aggression.
The gun has lots of small plastic balls with it that you're supposed to fire at a target and then they explode in a splatter of colourful paint. The little balls are hard to load and sometimes fall out the top of the gun instead of shooting out. When the kids do manage to shoot the balls out of the gun they tend to bounce off the target. They then pick up the paint balls and throw them at each other or against the wall.
According to its instructions the chocolate fountain requires 750 grams of chocolate plus 200 ml of vegetable oil to work properly. This is the equivalent of about 20 ordinary size bars of chocolate.
I managed to melt the massive amount of chocolate required in the microwave and added some cream and olive oil to make it viscous. I turned on the machine and a little Homer man started to spin around the top of the fountain. At this stage the kids had marshmallows on sticks ready and were beside themselves with excitement.
I felt under pressure so I quickly poured the chocolate onto the top of the fountain and it splattered all over me and the kitchen. Had a quick read of the instructions which were quite clear about pouring the chocolate into the base of the fountain.
I ate far too many marshmallows covered in falling gooey chocolate sauce and felt slightly sick. The kids got sick of the marshmallows and went at the fountain with spoons. I stopped them before they went into a chocolate induced frenzy.
This evening the gun lies discarded in the playroom. The garden wall is covered in multi-coloured paint splatters and there are lots of tiny, empty paint balls scattered around the garden.
All the uneaten chocolate sauce that was scraped out of the fountain is in a tempting container in the fridge. All the chocolate splattered clothes are in the laundry basket.
It might take a while to eat all the sauce but we will try to manage it.
Recently one of my children got two presents. A Homer Simpson chocolate fountain and a gun that shoots paintballs.
The gun is an environmentally unfriendly piece of plastic that would bring an architect out in a rash and cause you to forfeit your membership of the Green Party.
Guns are now considered really dangerous by some parents because playing with one might turn your child into a serial killer. Then again maybe NOT allowing your boy to play with guns might turn him into a killer because he won't get a chance to express his aggression.
The gun has lots of small plastic balls with it that you're supposed to fire at a target and then they explode in a splatter of colourful paint. The little balls are hard to load and sometimes fall out the top of the gun instead of shooting out. When the kids do manage to shoot the balls out of the gun they tend to bounce off the target. They then pick up the paint balls and throw them at each other or against the wall.
According to its instructions the chocolate fountain requires 750 grams of chocolate plus 200 ml of vegetable oil to work properly. This is the equivalent of about 20 ordinary size bars of chocolate.
I managed to melt the massive amount of chocolate required in the microwave and added some cream and olive oil to make it viscous. I turned on the machine and a little Homer man started to spin around the top of the fountain. At this stage the kids had marshmallows on sticks ready and were beside themselves with excitement.
I felt under pressure so I quickly poured the chocolate onto the top of the fountain and it splattered all over me and the kitchen. Had a quick read of the instructions which were quite clear about pouring the chocolate into the base of the fountain.
I ate far too many marshmallows covered in falling gooey chocolate sauce and felt slightly sick. The kids got sick of the marshmallows and went at the fountain with spoons. I stopped them before they went into a chocolate induced frenzy.
This evening the gun lies discarded in the playroom. The garden wall is covered in multi-coloured paint splatters and there are lots of tiny, empty paint balls scattered around the garden.
All the uneaten chocolate sauce that was scraped out of the fountain is in a tempting container in the fridge. All the chocolate splattered clothes are in the laundry basket.
It might take a while to eat all the sauce but we will try to manage it.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Top of the Pops
The best music ever was definitely on Top of the Pops in the late 70s and early 80s. We used to watch it religiously every Thursday evening. Achieving number one was a big deal. By the time the overplayed songs came off the charts we would all know every lyric by heart.
Top of the Pops ran for 42 years and at its height it commanded 15 million viewers a week.
We loved the lyrics of the songs from that era so much that we used to write them out verbatim on the front of our school folders. We would sing the whole of Grease at lunch time when we were in junior school and Pink Floyd's The Wall in senior school.
The songs told stories and reflected and enhanced our emotional experiences. Some of them were ridiculous. We sang Rene and Renata's "Save your Love" in exaggerated ecstasy and sneered for Ireland every time "Grandma We Love You" came on the radio.
"Romeo and Juliet" by Dire Straits was a meaningful slow set song and we banged our heads and lowered our inter cert results to Rush and Meatloaf in Old Wesley every Friday Night.
We modestly covered our skinny adoleascent bodies with long skirts and hippy shirts or mod parkas and loose punk t-shirts and drainpipe jeans. No one flaunted flesh or showed off cleavage.
We can only dance with fervour and meaning to those songs because they are ingrained in our psyche like old tattoos that we can't get rid of.
One of my best friends from school turned 40 recently and she had a fantastic party in a rugby club on Friday night. The setting and the music perfectly recreated Old Wesley circa 1984. The DJ understood his audience so there was plenty of Blondie, Culture Club, The Specials, The Stranglers and Talking Heads. When "Video Killed the Radio Star" was played the girls took to the floor and we rocked.
Our clothing has changed but in a strange way it echoed our adolescence. The 40 year old "girls" were looking good but no one was dressed in an overtly sexual manner. I guess that era defined us sartorially as well as musically.
Top of the Pops ran for 42 years and at its height it commanded 15 million viewers a week.
We loved the lyrics of the songs from that era so much that we used to write them out verbatim on the front of our school folders. We would sing the whole of Grease at lunch time when we were in junior school and Pink Floyd's The Wall in senior school.
The songs told stories and reflected and enhanced our emotional experiences. Some of them were ridiculous. We sang Rene and Renata's "Save your Love" in exaggerated ecstasy and sneered for Ireland every time "Grandma We Love You" came on the radio.
"Romeo and Juliet" by Dire Straits was a meaningful slow set song and we banged our heads and lowered our inter cert results to Rush and Meatloaf in Old Wesley every Friday Night.
We modestly covered our skinny adoleascent bodies with long skirts and hippy shirts or mod parkas and loose punk t-shirts and drainpipe jeans. No one flaunted flesh or showed off cleavage.
We can only dance with fervour and meaning to those songs because they are ingrained in our psyche like old tattoos that we can't get rid of.
One of my best friends from school turned 40 recently and she had a fantastic party in a rugby club on Friday night. The setting and the music perfectly recreated Old Wesley circa 1984. The DJ understood his audience so there was plenty of Blondie, Culture Club, The Specials, The Stranglers and Talking Heads. When "Video Killed the Radio Star" was played the girls took to the floor and we rocked.
Our clothing has changed but in a strange way it echoed our adolescence. The 40 year old "girls" were looking good but no one was dressed in an overtly sexual manner. I guess that era defined us sartorially as well as musically.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The hunter became the hunted!
There is a lovely sound in my kitchen at the moment and I don't know if I should silence it.
The sound is of the chirrup of crickets who live behind the radiator and it's evocative of long outdoor dinners during Summer holidays in the South of France.
It's a bit of a talking point when people are over for dinner. Most visitors think it's a bird until we explain, and then we generally have a short discussion about how pleasant the sound is, how it reminds them of Summer holidays etc. My Father likes the sound so much that he was wondering whether he could take a few of the crickets over to his house and let them live in his radiator.
The crickets weren't put there on purpose but now that they're there I'm reluctant to get rid of them. Some evenings I come down to the kitchen and the noise is very loud and a bit scary. They love the heat and the dark and as the temperature rises they chirrup loudly in chorus. Some of them hop out and hop around the kitchen for a bit. They've got huge recently and they can hop for a few feet.
They came to be there because my son is obsessed with bugs. I bought him the best book I could find on bugs. It's called "Buzz" and has loads of gorey, graphic information on yucky, creepy bugs. On the front are buttons that make different bugs noises (including the sound of crickets chirruping) when you press them. It's such a great book that I bought a few copies as party presents for his friends.
Inside the book were suggestions for bug pets. One of the top ten pets is a praying mantis - it's a stick like carnivorous insect that holds its two spindly legs in front of it as if it is praying.
My son decided that he really, really wanted one. He talked about it for some time but obviously it was just talk. As luck would have it he went off to the pet exhibition to the RDS with his Dad and found a guy who sold bug eyed praying mantis insects in glass cases for €25. He said "it was like a dream come true."
The praying mantis isn't a bad pet. You don't have to walk it, clean out its cage or worry about going on holiday. The only problem from my point of view was that the praying mantis had to be fed live crickets.
You can buy live crickets from pet shops. They are quite small and don't make any noise. They come in a plastic takeaway carton and are really hard to get out of the carton alive and transfer into the mantis cage because they hop around a bit.
The praying mantis lived for about six months. During that time it shed its skin, ate lots of crickets, went into school for "show and tell" and eventually lost a leg.
After it's leg fell off it wasn't too good at hunting so it died a few weeks later. The crickets left in its cage started to eat the mantis after it died which was really gross. But I suppose it's a way to teach kids about nature.
Meanwhile a few of the lucky and more enterprising crickets escaped while being transferred as mantis food and have taken up residence in the kitchen.
And I'm not sure whether to leave them there.....
The sound is of the chirrup of crickets who live behind the radiator and it's evocative of long outdoor dinners during Summer holidays in the South of France.
It's a bit of a talking point when people are over for dinner. Most visitors think it's a bird until we explain, and then we generally have a short discussion about how pleasant the sound is, how it reminds them of Summer holidays etc. My Father likes the sound so much that he was wondering whether he could take a few of the crickets over to his house and let them live in his radiator.
The crickets weren't put there on purpose but now that they're there I'm reluctant to get rid of them. Some evenings I come down to the kitchen and the noise is very loud and a bit scary. They love the heat and the dark and as the temperature rises they chirrup loudly in chorus. Some of them hop out and hop around the kitchen for a bit. They've got huge recently and they can hop for a few feet.
They came to be there because my son is obsessed with bugs. I bought him the best book I could find on bugs. It's called "Buzz" and has loads of gorey, graphic information on yucky, creepy bugs. On the front are buttons that make different bugs noises (including the sound of crickets chirruping) when you press them. It's such a great book that I bought a few copies as party presents for his friends.
Inside the book were suggestions for bug pets. One of the top ten pets is a praying mantis - it's a stick like carnivorous insect that holds its two spindly legs in front of it as if it is praying.
My son decided that he really, really wanted one. He talked about it for some time but obviously it was just talk. As luck would have it he went off to the pet exhibition to the RDS with his Dad and found a guy who sold bug eyed praying mantis insects in glass cases for €25. He said "it was like a dream come true."
The praying mantis isn't a bad pet. You don't have to walk it, clean out its cage or worry about going on holiday. The only problem from my point of view was that the praying mantis had to be fed live crickets.
You can buy live crickets from pet shops. They are quite small and don't make any noise. They come in a plastic takeaway carton and are really hard to get out of the carton alive and transfer into the mantis cage because they hop around a bit.
The praying mantis lived for about six months. During that time it shed its skin, ate lots of crickets, went into school for "show and tell" and eventually lost a leg.
After it's leg fell off it wasn't too good at hunting so it died a few weeks later. The crickets left in its cage started to eat the mantis after it died which was really gross. But I suppose it's a way to teach kids about nature.
Meanwhile a few of the lucky and more enterprising crickets escaped while being transferred as mantis food and have taken up residence in the kitchen.
And I'm not sure whether to leave them there.....
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