It's Groundhog Day. Wine Goose is awoken early by the energetic kids, keen to get a head start on building sandcastles. She urges them to keep quiet for another couple of hours - Mr R works hard for the money and needs his sleep. When the limited supply of toys permitted by the airline luggage allowance can entertain them no longer she wanders into the kitchen and rustles up a breakfast comparable to what they would be served at home. Bear in mind that in the comfort of suburbia she only has to make a very short journey from car boot to kitchen with the groceries, whereas here on the island numerous flights of stairs and sharp turns must be negotiated. Complete with a five litre container of water of course. The children predictably eat nothing, and in common with the home experience, Wine Goose drains the milk out of the cereal and scrapes it into the bin.
Her next task is getting them into UVF resistant swimwear. This is followed by face washing, teeth-brushing, and try as she might to put off the inevitable - sunscreen application. Can the manufacturers work on making it a little less sticky please? Better still, why can't they come up with a tablet so that all the child has to do is swallow a pleasant tasting pill before hitting the beach? It might seem a long shot, but given his ability to disappear at the crucial moment, it'll happen before Mr R ever gets his hands sticky. This process takes forever, so that as we arrive on the beach we are already entering the zone of deadly midday rays, so terrifying documented by our rep on the coach transfer. Wine Goose then spends her time closely monitoring the children. They have made lots of new friends and are busy playing imaginary games and creating fantastic sand structures complete with moats and drawbridges.
Mr R emerges from the apartment, clean-shaven and in yet another pristine set of holiday clothes. He settles himself onto a chaise-longue, angling the umbrella so that his face will be saved from the age-inducing rays. Carefully checking that his exposed lower body is sufficiently protected from sunburn, yet still likely to garner a golden glow, he opens up his third novel of the holiday. Wine Goose, meanwhile, has not make any progress with the dreadful chick-lit thing that set her back an arm and a leg at Dublin airport. Mr R is completely absorbed, but will from time to time acknowledge the existence of the children, perhaps helping them to retrieve a lost spade, or chuckling endearingly at one of their jokes. Wine Goose is not forgotten either - he occasionally points out how much she will enjoy the novel he is currently reading, conveniently forgetting that unless she cuts back to less than five hours sleep per night she will never improve on the current rate of one book per month.
As the week passes decisions become increasingly difficult for Mr R to make, so that instead of pushing him to choose between lunch at the pool bar and lunch at the apartment, Wine Goose organises a full day excursion to a local Water Park. The entrance fee is a prohibitive €77.00. What do we get for our money? Peeling paint, lopsided tiles and sleepy lifeguards. More terrifyingly, structures that look as if they are locked in a time warp. Helter skelters that claim to carry a dozen full grown men at any one time rest on a few rickety poles, the centrifugal force of the test ride selected by Mr R almost ejects him over the side, and the child friendly super slide entraps our daughter by her armband for a few terrifying seconds before Mr R manages to rescue her. Wine Goose fully expects Esther Rantzen and the entire "That's Life!" TV crew to come out of retirement and pop up beside her for a tragedy-filled half hour show on the dangers of ignoring EU health and safety regulations.
More and more families arrive, and by lunchtime Mr R is starting to feel naked without his tattoos. The children are lured from the pool by the promise of an ice-cream. Mr R then decides he has had enough, and so we leave the Water Park to return to the familiarity of the apartment. Mr R once more takes up his novel; Wine Goose once more looks after de-sunscreening and washing the children. Her task complete she dresses them in clean clothes, prepares a nutritious supper, before they all tiptoe past a clearly exhausted and by now asleep Mr R. It's time for the mini disco, and another attempt at keeping up with the Macarena. Vive les vacances. It must surely be time for a glass of deliciously fresh and fruity Torres Vina Sol (€5.00).
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
Sunday, 18 May 2008
Package Holiday - beginning
Now that we've tried and tested both the Irish holiday and the independent option, Mr R has proclaimed that it is time to subject the family to a package holiday. The Irish holiday has henceforth been ruled out as being too expensive and too wet. Our experience to date has been one of imagining spectacular scenery through a fogged up windscreen with wipers hurtling furiously back and forth. 'Are we there yet?' begins before we escape the confines of our suburb, and were it not for the in-car DVD player the children would probably find themselves being hurtled out the window before we even reach the M50. Damage would of course be minimal as traffic on this particular 'artery' rarely reaches a crawl. Wine Goose is also happy to close this chapter. A particularly vivid memory of trying to scoop an uninspiring seafood chowder from lap to mouth squashed in a corner of a mediocre pub in the west of Ireland while all around her children devour yet another plate of nuggets and chips, not to mention having to open sachets of ketchup at a rate of knots, is enough to send her onto the next Ryanair flight out of the country, whatever the destination might be.
Coincidentally, the independent option did involve a Ryanair flight. Oh the joys of island life. We negotiate the mind-numbing queues for check-in and security; arrive at the gate warmed-up and limber, confident that we will make it onto the flight in time to secure four seats in a row. Luck plays a small part and we find ourselves on the tarmac with a slight advantage. We throw ourselves at the small dot of an aeroplane with the same fervour shown by those trying to scale the Berlin Wall. It's all going well and we arrive at the steps ahead of the posse. Then disaster strikes. Because we have not discussed who will be responsible for folding the buggy, and who will be responsible for loading the children onto the aircraft, we lose vital seconds. We can only look on in horror as passengers stream past us to grab the plumb seats. Even the shortest flight can be hell when a family is scattered.
So this time we take the easy option, push a few buttons on the computer, and before we know we are once again heading for Dublin airport, this time at the ungodly hour of 4.00 am. The streets are deserted but as we approach the airport roundabout it seems that end of the world is nigh. Endless queues necessitate bribing the children to behave; and by the time we reach our departure gate Wine Goose has already spend half her holiday money on sweet treats, bottled water and holiday reading material. The flight itself is uneventful and four hours later we arrive on the sunny island of Lanzarote. We are greeted by a rep with a strong north of England accent and a face that reflects many years of sun exposure, combined with regularly getting up in the middle of the night to stand in unventilated airports. Wine Goose immediately creates an imaginary history for her - escaped the monotony of an office job in an industrial town 20 years ago, met and married island boy, now freelances and has a wardrobe filled with brightly coloured blazers embroidered with the logos of all the tour operators in Lanzarote. Sometimes wonders how her life would have turned out if she'd returned home after her first season in the sun. The transfer to our apartment is mercifully short, as Wine Goose can only listen to so much advice on which hours to stay out of the sun, Spanish tummy and where to buy electrical products (ever hear of the Internet lady?).
The apartment isn't quite ready and so we spend the next couple of hours in the resort sticking out like sore thumbs - bedraggled, bad-tempered and overdressed. And that's just the children. Starting from this low base, the holiday is surely guaranteed to have some restorative effects. Wine Goose decides now is the time to start enjoying herself. She takes a seat at a shady table in the Poolside Bar, places an order for 2 portions of that international delicacy nuggets and chips, then pours her first glass of deliciously fresh and fruity Torres Vina Sol ($10.00 is in Ireland, half the price in another remote island off Spain). After the briefest of inspections of the label, Mr R too pours himself a glass. Vive les vacances or whatever the islanders say. Olé Olé.
Coincidentally, the independent option did involve a Ryanair flight. Oh the joys of island life. We negotiate the mind-numbing queues for check-in and security; arrive at the gate warmed-up and limber, confident that we will make it onto the flight in time to secure four seats in a row. Luck plays a small part and we find ourselves on the tarmac with a slight advantage. We throw ourselves at the small dot of an aeroplane with the same fervour shown by those trying to scale the Berlin Wall. It's all going well and we arrive at the steps ahead of the posse. Then disaster strikes. Because we have not discussed who will be responsible for folding the buggy, and who will be responsible for loading the children onto the aircraft, we lose vital seconds. We can only look on in horror as passengers stream past us to grab the plumb seats. Even the shortest flight can be hell when a family is scattered.
So this time we take the easy option, push a few buttons on the computer, and before we know we are once again heading for Dublin airport, this time at the ungodly hour of 4.00 am. The streets are deserted but as we approach the airport roundabout it seems that end of the world is nigh. Endless queues necessitate bribing the children to behave; and by the time we reach our departure gate Wine Goose has already spend half her holiday money on sweet treats, bottled water and holiday reading material. The flight itself is uneventful and four hours later we arrive on the sunny island of Lanzarote. We are greeted by a rep with a strong north of England accent and a face that reflects many years of sun exposure, combined with regularly getting up in the middle of the night to stand in unventilated airports. Wine Goose immediately creates an imaginary history for her - escaped the monotony of an office job in an industrial town 20 years ago, met and married island boy, now freelances and has a wardrobe filled with brightly coloured blazers embroidered with the logos of all the tour operators in Lanzarote. Sometimes wonders how her life would have turned out if she'd returned home after her first season in the sun. The transfer to our apartment is mercifully short, as Wine Goose can only listen to so much advice on which hours to stay out of the sun, Spanish tummy and where to buy electrical products (ever hear of the Internet lady?).
The apartment isn't quite ready and so we spend the next couple of hours in the resort sticking out like sore thumbs - bedraggled, bad-tempered and overdressed. And that's just the children. Starting from this low base, the holiday is surely guaranteed to have some restorative effects. Wine Goose decides now is the time to start enjoying herself. She takes a seat at a shady table in the Poolside Bar, places an order for 2 portions of that international delicacy nuggets and chips, then pours her first glass of deliciously fresh and fruity Torres Vina Sol ($10.00 is in Ireland, half the price in another remote island off Spain). After the briefest of inspections of the label, Mr R too pours himself a glass. Vive les vacances or whatever the islanders say. Olé Olé.
Wednesday, 30 April 2008
George Li
Okay, so here's where we're at. It's the 21st century in Dublin, Ireland. We are part of the generation that have put in the years at university to become the most educated workforce in Europe. We then go on to build up our careers, taking a few weeks off to get married before returning to the treadmill, when suddenly the arrival of babies halts us in our tracks.
We bask in the glory of Ireland's economic success by forking out more money than is sensible on a house. Some of choose to juggle (awful word, sounds like the children are being tossed around in the air as the mother rushes for a bus), while others, Wine Goose amongst their numbers give into exhaustion and opt to stay home. Either way it's a long day. The nappy changers regularly fantasise about their days in the world of corporate banking, complete with lunch break, and vice verse.
Whatever our choice, it is surely inevitable that at the end of another tiring day we all slump on the couch praying that the little darlings will keep their eyes and mouths tightly shut for 10 hours. And how does the national broadcaster reward us? After catching the last few minutes of Fair City (more than enough to keep up to date with the storyline I assure you), the gap before the 9 o'Clock News is filled with such rubbish that one wonders if RTE exists in a bubble. If it's Monday night it's got to be 'Life Without Me'. Intriguing title. Something to do with bereavement perhaps. But no, in this misjudged attempt at entertainment, a person is 'removed' from their family for a week, and we the viewer gets to see to how everybody else in their lives copes. Surely fascinating for the immediate family and a few neighbours in the village that time forgot, but hardly compulsive viewing for the most sophisticated workforce in Europe. 'Househunters in the Sun Revisited' - it must be Tuesday. Missed it the first time around, thankfully. Don't intend to revisit. And on it goes, insult added to injury - Diarmuid's Pony Kids (well Dermo did well in the Chelsea Flower Show, he's bound to succeed on de telly). No lessons learned from Anna Nolan then were there?
Nine o'clock, blessed relief. Our News. The interchangeable blond (sometimes a fringe, sometimes not) recounts the days events with a carefully modulated grown-up DART accent, expressing the same level of interest in a major nuclear disaster as in a midlands turf cutting competition.
But watch carefully, she does break into a small smile as she introduces the devilishly handsome Economics Correspondent, George. A major beneficiary of the country's success he encapsulates all that we are (square jaw, square glasses, expensive suit, flash car probably). He started off with a small slot on part 2, but right now he's competing with the Health Correspondent for top billing. This is no surprise to regular news watchers, Wine Goose included,who will surely have noted the man's ambition and how much more he seems to be enjoying the job nowadays. The transition started slowly - perhaps interjecting a curve once a week - a small factory in an obscure location closing down or a leader in a far off land making a decision that had a potentially disastrous impact for Ireland. Gradually he has grown in confidence and his screen time has increased exponentially as he brings us even more devastating economic news - spiralling interest rates, more closedowns, GDP and GNP (whatever they are) revised downwards. His excitement grows. He is on a roll. Property is no longer where it's at. Every report is prefaced with 'devastating' or 'has disastrous consequences'. The further the country sinks into economic doldrums the more excited he becomes. George Li is clearly a communist.
Can't afford to buy that sublime bottle of Ata Rangi Crimson Pinot Noir (€27.00). Don't blame Bertie, blame RTE.
We bask in the glory of Ireland's economic success by forking out more money than is sensible on a house. Some of choose to juggle (awful word, sounds like the children are being tossed around in the air as the mother rushes for a bus), while others, Wine Goose amongst their numbers give into exhaustion and opt to stay home. Either way it's a long day. The nappy changers regularly fantasise about their days in the world of corporate banking, complete with lunch break, and vice verse.
Whatever our choice, it is surely inevitable that at the end of another tiring day we all slump on the couch praying that the little darlings will keep their eyes and mouths tightly shut for 10 hours. And how does the national broadcaster reward us? After catching the last few minutes of Fair City (more than enough to keep up to date with the storyline I assure you), the gap before the 9 o'Clock News is filled with such rubbish that one wonders if RTE exists in a bubble. If it's Monday night it's got to be 'Life Without Me'. Intriguing title. Something to do with bereavement perhaps. But no, in this misjudged attempt at entertainment, a person is 'removed' from their family for a week, and we the viewer gets to see to how everybody else in their lives copes. Surely fascinating for the immediate family and a few neighbours in the village that time forgot, but hardly compulsive viewing for the most sophisticated workforce in Europe. 'Househunters in the Sun Revisited' - it must be Tuesday. Missed it the first time around, thankfully. Don't intend to revisit. And on it goes, insult added to injury - Diarmuid's Pony Kids (well Dermo did well in the Chelsea Flower Show, he's bound to succeed on de telly). No lessons learned from Anna Nolan then were there?
Nine o'clock, blessed relief. Our News. The interchangeable blond (sometimes a fringe, sometimes not) recounts the days events with a carefully modulated grown-up DART accent, expressing the same level of interest in a major nuclear disaster as in a midlands turf cutting competition.
But watch carefully, she does break into a small smile as she introduces the devilishly handsome Economics Correspondent, George. A major beneficiary of the country's success he encapsulates all that we are (square jaw, square glasses, expensive suit, flash car probably). He started off with a small slot on part 2, but right now he's competing with the Health Correspondent for top billing. This is no surprise to regular news watchers, Wine Goose included,who will surely have noted the man's ambition and how much more he seems to be enjoying the job nowadays. The transition started slowly - perhaps interjecting a curve once a week - a small factory in an obscure location closing down or a leader in a far off land making a decision that had a potentially disastrous impact for Ireland. Gradually he has grown in confidence and his screen time has increased exponentially as he brings us even more devastating economic news - spiralling interest rates, more closedowns, GDP and GNP (whatever they are) revised downwards. His excitement grows. He is on a roll. Property is no longer where it's at. Every report is prefaced with 'devastating' or 'has disastrous consequences'. The further the country sinks into economic doldrums the more excited he becomes. George Li is clearly a communist.
Can't afford to buy that sublime bottle of Ata Rangi Crimson Pinot Noir (€27.00). Don't blame Bertie, blame RTE.
Friday, 11 April 2008
Where's the wine?
It is Friday evening. It's the end of another long week. Wine Goose is worn out and has rustled up a curry from a previously untried recipe, tonight using a selection of worn out vegetables - tired onions, rubbery mushrooms and bouncy carrots (all easily found at the bottom of most fridges on any given day) livened up with a healthy can of chick peas. Difficult though it is to go wrong with vegetarian dishes, perhaps Wine Goose was on this occasion a little heavy-handed with the spices. In an attempt to detract from the limited success of the meal, she runs her hand over the wine rack and selects a bottle of Clos du Val Zinfandel (€20.00) to accompany the meal, reflecting only momentarily on her increasingly expensive taste in wine.Mr R is impressed. Tony Soprano drinks it with veal marsala, Sean Penn's 21 Grams character spends at least 5 minutes of valuable screen time with his hand wrapped around a bottle. It has also reared its neck in episodes of Desperate Housewives and Curb Your Enthusiasm. More importantly, at €20.00 a bottle, it actually has a lot more wine per bottle than your average €10.00 purchase.
Splash 1. That's €5.52 spent on tax, exise, duty and VAT. Splash 2. €8.00 forked out on packaging, distribution etc. And splash 3 leaves us with just €6.48 worth of wine.
Compare it lets say with a bottle around the €10.00 mark - Cono Sur Pinot Noir perhaps. Splash 1 takes up €3.78 on tax, exise, duty and VAT. Splash 2 consumes €4.00 on packaging, distribution etc. And splash 3, a meagre €2.22 worth of wine.
If the same process were repeated in Germany, Italy, Spain or Greece the price would instantly drop by the cost of the tax, as the excise rates on wine in these countries are, at nil, the lowest in Europe. Depressingly, Irish excise duties on both still and sparkling wine are the highest in the EU, and 6 times the EU average. All these facts and more are available on the very informative Wine Development Board website http://www.wineboard.ie/.
So when our local wine shop or supermarket presents us with special offers, how are they managing to cut costs? Wine Goose doesn't know, but welcomes suggestions. As a rule, if it's half price and you've never seen it on the shelves at full price, steer well clear. And of course if it's regular stock at a discount, snap it up.
Friday, 28 March 2008
Spa Break
It is impossible to stay in any hotel in Ireland nowadays without feeling compelled to escape the stresses of modern life by spending a couple of hours revitalising and rejuvenating in the luxury Spa. "Your health and wellbeing journey awaits you.... From the moment you walk through the doors your journey to tranquility and relaxing begins, feel the stress of life leaving your body, as you slowly inhale the delicate scent of natural oils... Embark on a delicious journey of self-discovery..." How can Wine Goose possibly resist all that the promotional literature offers?
Recent experience has suggested that these are all very similar havens - dark caves with lots of scented candles, twinkling lights in the ceiling, the sound of dolphins groaning or the dreaded pan-pipes playing in the background and smiling therapists all contrive to soothe us into a feeling of relaxation and well-being. An hour or two in this atmosphere and Wine Goose should positively float back up to the bedroom.
The occasion is a long overdue night away with the 'girls' (an awful Americanism that permits us to think that we are much younger than we actually are). We arrive at the hotel on the Saturday afternoon, and as soon as our blood pressure has returned to normal after discovering that our reservations have been mixed up, we make our way to the Spa in robes and slippers, with hair scraped back and faces cleansed of make-up. It is of course inevitable that, looking like this, one of us bumps into an old flame in full conference attire - suit, tie and over-sized name badge legible from 50 paces. The embarrassment is acute; we all blush and behave like 16 year olds, before vowing to make it a ladies only venue the next time. At the current rate that's another 10 years away and all the old flames will probably have retired by then so our fears are surely groundless.
Wine Goose has booked a deluxe facial and eye lift lasting 90 minutes. This facial treatment "concentrates on reviving the skins natural moisture and pays particular attention to the delicate eye area, helping to minimise the appearance of fine lines." The therapist will be spending more time on my skincare in one afternoon than I've spend in the last 5 years, so I'm expecting to emerge transformed. Her name is unpronounceable, she is young and unlined, and she talks me soothingly through each stage of the process. I am then guided to the Relaxation Room - more twinkling lights and scented candles - where I am instructed to drink lots of water. I fill a plastic glass from the water cooler, settle myself on a recliner, and promptly fall into a deep sleep. I wake up and have no idea where I am so I stumble out of the room, before trying to feel my way back down a dark corridor to the exit. Eventually I make it back to the bedroom where I find my friends in a similar state of greasy facedness.
The high point of the stay is the dinner, more importantly the conversation, gossip and red wine that we enjoy over dinner. Having chosen lamb as our main course, we allow the sommelier to suggest an Argentian Malbec to accompany it. It's a very good recommendation and matches the lamb perfectly, but when it comes to ordering a second bottle we opt for a Spanish Rioja, something we all enjoy, and on this particular night, to excess.
The next morning we are all slightly delicate. Add the dehydrating effects of too much overpriced and mediocre red wine to hotelface and Wine Goose appears to have actually accelerated the ageing process. Not only that but she has parted with her hard-earned cash for the privilege. Next time, she vows, it will be a straightforward manicure, followed by a full 60 minutes passed out in the Relaxation Room. From this she will emerge refreshed, and more importantly with something to show for her time. The polish will have dried to such an extent that no chips will appear, and should therefore be able to withstand even the most demanding glass lifting it is forced to undergo.
Paying a hotel bill is never a pleasant experience, especially when the extras make the room rate appear reasonable. Not only will I spend more wisely when it comes to treatments, I decide, I will also invest in a padiwrap, a neat little 2 bottle carrier which fits snugly into most suitcases. This will have added bonus of removing Wine Goose and her gaggle from the restaurant at a crucial point, no doubt depriving fellow diners of our lively and entertaining conversation, as we continue to enjoy a few glasses of wine in the comfort and privacy of our bedroom.
What to put in the padiwrap? The experts have yet to suggest a wine that is suitable for consumption in vast quantities long after the food has gone, and Wine Goose is not going to be the first. Choose something you know and like, and make sure that the alcohol content doesn't exceed 12.5%. You'll thank me the next morning.
Recent experience has suggested that these are all very similar havens - dark caves with lots of scented candles, twinkling lights in the ceiling, the sound of dolphins groaning or the dreaded pan-pipes playing in the background and smiling therapists all contrive to soothe us into a feeling of relaxation and well-being. An hour or two in this atmosphere and Wine Goose should positively float back up to the bedroom.
The occasion is a long overdue night away with the 'girls' (an awful Americanism that permits us to think that we are much younger than we actually are). We arrive at the hotel on the Saturday afternoon, and as soon as our blood pressure has returned to normal after discovering that our reservations have been mixed up, we make our way to the Spa in robes and slippers, with hair scraped back and faces cleansed of make-up. It is of course inevitable that, looking like this, one of us bumps into an old flame in full conference attire - suit, tie and over-sized name badge legible from 50 paces. The embarrassment is acute; we all blush and behave like 16 year olds, before vowing to make it a ladies only venue the next time. At the current rate that's another 10 years away and all the old flames will probably have retired by then so our fears are surely groundless.
Wine Goose has booked a deluxe facial and eye lift lasting 90 minutes. This facial treatment "concentrates on reviving the skins natural moisture and pays particular attention to the delicate eye area, helping to minimise the appearance of fine lines." The therapist will be spending more time on my skincare in one afternoon than I've spend in the last 5 years, so I'm expecting to emerge transformed. Her name is unpronounceable, she is young and unlined, and she talks me soothingly through each stage of the process. I am then guided to the Relaxation Room - more twinkling lights and scented candles - where I am instructed to drink lots of water. I fill a plastic glass from the water cooler, settle myself on a recliner, and promptly fall into a deep sleep. I wake up and have no idea where I am so I stumble out of the room, before trying to feel my way back down a dark corridor to the exit. Eventually I make it back to the bedroom where I find my friends in a similar state of greasy facedness.
The high point of the stay is the dinner, more importantly the conversation, gossip and red wine that we enjoy over dinner. Having chosen lamb as our main course, we allow the sommelier to suggest an Argentian Malbec to accompany it. It's a very good recommendation and matches the lamb perfectly, but when it comes to ordering a second bottle we opt for a Spanish Rioja, something we all enjoy, and on this particular night, to excess.
The next morning we are all slightly delicate. Add the dehydrating effects of too much overpriced and mediocre red wine to hotelface and Wine Goose appears to have actually accelerated the ageing process. Not only that but she has parted with her hard-earned cash for the privilege. Next time, she vows, it will be a straightforward manicure, followed by a full 60 minutes passed out in the Relaxation Room. From this she will emerge refreshed, and more importantly with something to show for her time. The polish will have dried to such an extent that no chips will appear, and should therefore be able to withstand even the most demanding glass lifting it is forced to undergo.
Paying a hotel bill is never a pleasant experience, especially when the extras make the room rate appear reasonable. Not only will I spend more wisely when it comes to treatments, I decide, I will also invest in a padiwrap, a neat little 2 bottle carrier which fits snugly into most suitcases. This will have added bonus of removing Wine Goose and her gaggle from the restaurant at a crucial point, no doubt depriving fellow diners of our lively and entertaining conversation, as we continue to enjoy a few glasses of wine in the comfort and privacy of our bedroom.
What to put in the padiwrap? The experts have yet to suggest a wine that is suitable for consumption in vast quantities long after the food has gone, and Wine Goose is not going to be the first. Choose something you know and like, and make sure that the alcohol content doesn't exceed 12.5%. You'll thank me the next morning.
Thursday, 20 March 2008
Hotelface
No relation to pramface, defined as a girl who wouldn't look at all out of place at 14 years of age pushing a newborn through a council estate; hotelface is the face that Wine Goose wakes up with after spending a night in one of Ireland's newly refurbished and soul-less hotels. A glance in the mirror reveals a layer of rhinoceros hide, most likely caused by leftover builders dust settling on the skin and mixing, cement-style, with the perspiration caused by a combination of the hermetically sealed double-glazed windows and the non-functioning but very noisy air-conditioning unit.Several applications of over-priced moisturiser do little to improve the situation. Moved to consider that perhaps the grandiosely named 'snipe' of bulk-produced Australian chardonnay (the only wine accompaniment on offer to last night's chicken stir-fry) may have been a factor, Wine Goose risks appraising her fellow diners at the breakfast buffet. All are victims of hotelface; even the men have a glassy-eyed look, as if they'd forgotten to remove their mascara before retiring for the night. And several women have compounded the problem by adding make-up, the resulting look bringing Frankenstein's monster to mind.
This being the west of Ireland the commonsense solution is a brisk walk in the lashing rain and howling wind, more effective and a lot cheaper than microdermabrasion, before undergoing the process again the next night.
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
SUV or not SUV
The 'if only everything in life was as reliable' car has developed a wheeze. It sounds a bit like the exhaust is falling off, except that exhausts don't fall off cars nowadays, especially cars that spend their lives gliding around the flat-surfaced familiarity of the suburbs between schools, playdates and tennis lessons. This happens soon after a two-day stay in the garage for the car equivalent of a hip replacement. Lots of new spark plugs can't prevent the inevitable so Wine Goose is faced with the prospect of trading her in for a younger model.
Wine Goose is a woman, and so she takes a practical approach to choosing a replacement vehicle. What she needs is something that holds three passengers most of the time, but sometimes has to carry five, four of whom require booster seats. This because our socialite daughter likes to bring her friends home in pairs, and younger brother cannot just yet be left in charge of the house while I get the girls home. Anyone who has transported children in recent years will know that is not physically possible to fit three booster seats across the back seat of a normal saloon car. Environmentalists and right-on types can moan all they like about the prevalence of off-road vehicles on the streets of the suburbs, but it seems that as soon as the third child arrives the saloon must go, to be replaced by a 7 seater.
Wine Goose will not consider a people carrier. These vehicles are designed for mothers of large families (nowadays defined as 3 or more children) who devote their entire lives to ferrying children. This is definitely not the message about herself that Wine Goose wants to send out to fellow road users. Mr R gently tries to steer her towards a Sports Utility Vehicle (SUV). Good idea, I respond. 'How about a Jeep Grand Cherokee?' He is momentarily stunned. He expected a vehement no. 'I was thinking more along the lines of a Volvo XC90 or BMW X5' is the response. Aha, all his research has been conducted in the car park of the self-described 'exclusive leisure club' that relieves us of a sizable portion of our disposable income each month. Strange, I always think, that exclusive should not include enough car parking spaces for members, but the upside is that Mr R has had plenty of time to check out the merchandise while circling in search of a space. 'A Jeep Grand Cherokee' he repeats slowly, indicating to Wine Goose that he has never seen or heard of such a thing. He consults his well-thumbed SIMI (Society of the Irish Motor Industry) handbook, which gives the prices for all new cars, and nods sagely. It is clearly a ridiculous proposition, not least because it is all of 3 feet longer than our front driveway and would permanently obstruct the footpath. I remind Mr R that when first we met I was driving a Citroen 2CV, and probably still would be, if it were an option. My current car, while certainly not iconic, does contribute in a small way to the sense of individuality I like to think I have retained despite conforming in so many ways (3 bed semi-d, 2.2 children, husband a member of the professional classes - need I go on).
We take a break from our discussion and Wine Goose serves an open roast chicken and salad sandwich, accompanied by a glass of Rizzardi Pinot Grigio 2006 (€9.99). Pinot Grigio, with it's light, lemony characteristics is typically discounted as only suitable for summer drinking, however this single vineyard wine displays a lovely creamy nuttiness, and is full of delicious flavours of peaches and pears. A little glass of joy.
Replete, Wine Goose is inspired to question Mr R further about his choices. By now we are both fully aware of the carbon footprint (bad) and safety (also bad) issues associated with driving such monsters, so instead I focus purely on aesthetics. For example, does the purchase price include sufficient beauty salon, hairstylist, chi-chi boutique and liposuction vouchers to ensure that the driver of such a vehicle never leaves the house looking less than fantastic? Or does the car dealer politely but firmly turn away all potential drivers who don't meet the grooming and deportment criteria imposed by the manufacturer?
We are not getting very far. Belatedly I decide to find out about the regulations governing child safety in cars. Google directs me to the Road Safety Authority (RSA) website, which (in common with most 'official' websites) has lots of useful information for those who speak gobbledygook. A little more searching and the equivalent UK (also subject to EU laws) road safety website proves much more informative and user-friendly. From their FAQs I am amazed to learn the following: 'In many cars, there is not room for three child seats across the rear seat. If two occupied child seats or boosters prevent the fitting of a third, and the front seat is not available, a third child aged 3 years and over may then use just an adult belt in the rear. This may be a lap belt. It would be safer for the third child to travel in the front seat and use the correct child seat or booster but see below about air-bags. In all my school-gate conversations on the subject nobody has been able to supply any such rational or clear information. Spread the word.
I order the child car safety booklet from the RSA but it never arrives. I then book my car an appointment with the mechanic and mentally prepare myself for the humiliation every woman has to face as he explains that the problem was really very easily fixed, and then overcharges me for the privilege of fixing it. I cut the arms off a polystyrene booster cushion and fit it snugly in the middle of the back seat. I invest €12.99 in a booster cushion for the front seat. The front passenger airbag was already disconnected when I bought the car so I now find myself in the enviable position of having one of the smallest cars capable of safely transporting four children in all of suburbia. I decide against asking Mr R to gift me the car purchase price that my research has saved.
Wine Goose is a woman, and so she takes a practical approach to choosing a replacement vehicle. What she needs is something that holds three passengers most of the time, but sometimes has to carry five, four of whom require booster seats. This because our socialite daughter likes to bring her friends home in pairs, and younger brother cannot just yet be left in charge of the house while I get the girls home. Anyone who has transported children in recent years will know that is not physically possible to fit three booster seats across the back seat of a normal saloon car. Environmentalists and right-on types can moan all they like about the prevalence of off-road vehicles on the streets of the suburbs, but it seems that as soon as the third child arrives the saloon must go, to be replaced by a 7 seater.
Wine Goose will not consider a people carrier. These vehicles are designed for mothers of large families (nowadays defined as 3 or more children) who devote their entire lives to ferrying children. This is definitely not the message about herself that Wine Goose wants to send out to fellow road users. Mr R gently tries to steer her towards a Sports Utility Vehicle (SUV). Good idea, I respond. 'How about a Jeep Grand Cherokee?' He is momentarily stunned. He expected a vehement no. 'I was thinking more along the lines of a Volvo XC90 or BMW X5' is the response. Aha, all his research has been conducted in the car park of the self-described 'exclusive leisure club' that relieves us of a sizable portion of our disposable income each month. Strange, I always think, that exclusive should not include enough car parking spaces for members, but the upside is that Mr R has had plenty of time to check out the merchandise while circling in search of a space. 'A Jeep Grand Cherokee' he repeats slowly, indicating to Wine Goose that he has never seen or heard of such a thing. He consults his well-thumbed SIMI (Society of the Irish Motor Industry) handbook, which gives the prices for all new cars, and nods sagely. It is clearly a ridiculous proposition, not least because it is all of 3 feet longer than our front driveway and would permanently obstruct the footpath. I remind Mr R that when first we met I was driving a Citroen 2CV, and probably still would be, if it were an option. My current car, while certainly not iconic, does contribute in a small way to the sense of individuality I like to think I have retained despite conforming in so many ways (3 bed semi-d, 2.2 children, husband a member of the professional classes - need I go on).
We take a break from our discussion and Wine Goose serves an open roast chicken and salad sandwich, accompanied by a glass of Rizzardi Pinot Grigio 2006 (€9.99). Pinot Grigio, with it's light, lemony characteristics is typically discounted as only suitable for summer drinking, however this single vineyard wine displays a lovely creamy nuttiness, and is full of delicious flavours of peaches and pears. A little glass of joy.
Replete, Wine Goose is inspired to question Mr R further about his choices. By now we are both fully aware of the carbon footprint (bad) and safety (also bad) issues associated with driving such monsters, so instead I focus purely on aesthetics. For example, does the purchase price include sufficient beauty salon, hairstylist, chi-chi boutique and liposuction vouchers to ensure that the driver of such a vehicle never leaves the house looking less than fantastic? Or does the car dealer politely but firmly turn away all potential drivers who don't meet the grooming and deportment criteria imposed by the manufacturer?
We are not getting very far. Belatedly I decide to find out about the regulations governing child safety in cars. Google directs me to the Road Safety Authority (RSA) website, which (in common with most 'official' websites) has lots of useful information for those who speak gobbledygook. A little more searching and the equivalent UK (also subject to EU laws) road safety website proves much more informative and user-friendly. From their FAQs I am amazed to learn the following: 'In many cars, there is not room for three child seats across the rear seat. If two occupied child seats or boosters prevent the fitting of a third, and the front seat is not available, a third child aged 3 years and over may then use just an adult belt in the rear. This may be a lap belt. It would be safer for the third child to travel in the front seat and use the correct child seat or booster but see below about air-bags. In all my school-gate conversations on the subject nobody has been able to supply any such rational or clear information. Spread the word.
I order the child car safety booklet from the RSA but it never arrives. I then book my car an appointment with the mechanic and mentally prepare myself for the humiliation every woman has to face as he explains that the problem was really very easily fixed, and then overcharges me for the privilege of fixing it. I cut the arms off a polystyrene booster cushion and fit it snugly in the middle of the back seat. I invest €12.99 in a booster cushion for the front seat. The front passenger airbag was already disconnected when I bought the car so I now find myself in the enviable position of having one of the smallest cars capable of safely transporting four children in all of suburbia. I decide against asking Mr R to gift me the car purchase price that my research has saved.
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