Dear Santa
Next year, please deliver fewer self-assembly items.
With heartfelt thanks,
Yours sincerely,
Mr R
Thursday, 25 December 2008
Friday, 26 September 2008
Camogie Mom
The summer holidays are well and truly over. Almost before they began. The weather resolutely refused to cooperate and it only now as October approaches that the rain has stayed away for long enough to allow the kids a bit of time in the garden after school. That's if they can fit in any time in the garden with all the activities that are scheduled around them.
Ballet - 'well she loves it so I'll put up with the astronomical fees, lack of parking on a busy road and associated stress levels just so that she can prance around in a leotard once a week.'
Swimming - 'it's a necessary life skill so I'm not going to suffer the ignominy of being the only mother whose child is still in armbands at the age of 5.' Overheated pool, regular ear infections and having to compete with the other mothers in the fashion stakes are a small price to pay for the privilege of watching the little darlings wait their turn to be yelled at as they struggle up and down an overcrowded swimming lane.
Arts and Crafts - 'an after school activity that gives me an extra hour to wash, iron, cook etc.' Impossible to resist.
Ball skills - 'he may be young but he's very gifted, my husband has already hinted that I should prepare my speech - it's traditional for the mother of the captain of the winning Senior Cup team apparently....'
Ballet - 'well she loves it so I'll put up with the astronomical fees, lack of parking on a busy road and associated stress levels just so that she can prance around in a leotard once a week.'
Swimming - 'it's a necessary life skill so I'm not going to suffer the ignominy of being the only mother whose child is still in armbands at the age of 5.' Overheated pool, regular ear infections and having to compete with the other mothers in the fashion stakes are a small price to pay for the privilege of watching the little darlings wait their turn to be yelled at as they struggle up and down an overcrowded swimming lane.
Arts and Crafts - 'an after school activity that gives me an extra hour to wash, iron, cook etc.' Impossible to resist.
Ball skills - 'he may be young but he's very gifted, my husband has already hinted that I should prepare my speech - it's traditional for the mother of the captain of the winning Senior Cup team apparently....'
It is as she unloads the boot of her estate car (while the children settle themselves in front of yet another useless TV programme and demand to know what's for supper) that Wine Goose loses concentration and slips into a dream. It goes like this.
She receives a call from Mary McAleese, up there in Áras an Uachtaráin. 'We've decided the country needs a Vice President.' 'Em, Mary, where did you get my number?' 'From the phone book'. 'Okay, but why me?' 'Well, you're a woman, and you fit the required age and address profile so we thought you might be interested. And you're on the local schools Parents Association so you have some experience of politics.' Wine Goose is flattered. She briefly thinks about calling Mr R with her exciting news, but after a few moments careful consideration decides against taking up the offer. There are lots of reasons for this - lack of real political knowledge and fear of exposing herself and her family to intense media scrutiny coming top of the list. And to date, her experience with the Parents Association has been one of enormous frustration, not least from having to put up with the slow pace at which decisions are made.
On the other side of the Atlantic Sarah Palin has no such reservations and enters the fray with such gusto that Wine Goose is left stunned. How on the earth does the lady manage to juggle? Who is feeding her baby? Who is raising her family? Who is she? Where did she come from? Are Hillary Clinton voters really going to switch their vote, when they have no common ideologies? Is it really a possibility that somebody plucked from relative obscurity could potentially become the first female President of the United States? Wine Goose wonders if perhaps she has been a little too hasty in her own decision.
According to Decanter magazine, Palin Syrah, a small organic wine from Chile, has found itself embroiled in the turmoil surrounding the Republican campaign in the US presidential race. The wine, linked, for obvious reasons, with the Republican vice-presidential candidate, has drawn media attention in the U.S. News organisations in the country are tracking sales of the brand and connecting the label's fortunes to the popularity of Palin's right-wing politics. Chris Tavelli, a partner in San Francisco's Yield Wine Bar started serving Palin Syrah before Republican presidential candidate John McCain asked Palin to be his running-mate. Following Palin's nomination, sales of the wine plummeted in liberal San Francisco. But Tavelli is reluctant to take it off his wine list. 'It's good, organic and affordable,' he said.
Camogie is a Celtic team sport, the women's variant of hurling. Palin wines are not currently available in Ireland.
Sunday, 31 August 2008
Study Leave
Wine Goose is officially a student. Add that to my other titles and suddenly "I'm a housewife, I'm a mother, I'm a student." Back in the last century, before we were all 'worth it' Jerry Hall made a fortune from a similar pronunciation. Except that her case the line ran "I'm a housewife, I'm a mother, I'm a model" Lucrative, but surely not as challenging as attempting to achieve the WSET Level 3 Advanced Certificate in Wines and Spirits.
According to the Wine & Spirit Education Trust (WSET), the qualification objective is to provide a core knowledge of the wide range of wines and spirits around the world to equip those in a supervisory capacity with the authority and confidence to make informed decisions in a wide variety of trade situations. It is intended for people employed in the drinks and hospitality industries needing core information to advise with authority and make informed selections of wines and spirits; and also wine connoisseurs who wish to learn about wines and spirits in a rigorous and structured manner and gain an internationally recognised wine and spirit qualification.
Wine Goose considers that because of her part-time work in a Wine Shop she will have a considerable advantage over her fellow students and strolls confidently into the musty hotel conference room for the first lecture. Tonight's topic is broadly titled 'Winemaking', and deals with grape varieties, climate and weather, soils and topography, viticulture, vinification, maturation and bottling. She arrives early - there is more to an evening class to just studying and Wine Goose is keen to suss out her fellow students from an advantageous position at the back of the class. Predictably they are a mix of male and female, young and old, big and small; drawn from all walks of life and all keen to further their knowledge or keep their brains operational until time takes its inevitable toll and the process of forgetting everything ever learnt begins to take place. Wine Goose has a foot in both camps.
Very soon it becomes clear that this is not going to be easy. Various methods of training and pruning vines are presented, along with reasons for and against using them in particular wine regions, all of which we are expected to remember. Well I might have some chance if the presentation wasn't immediately followed by complicated diagrams of the fermentation process. My brain, by which I mean the small part that didn't turn to mush immediately following the birth of my first child, is filled to bursting point but there's more to come - vineyard pests and diseases. Carry this lecture on for an hour longer and the course can change its name to 'Cures for Insomnia'. Wine Goose glances around her in desperation - but all eyes are fully focused on the lecturer and what he has to say. Panic sets in, and Wine Goose considers fleeing. Surely at this early stage she can escape unnoticed. But then a reprieve - it's tasting time. Each student places 6 ISO tasting glasses on his or her desk and is served a small amount of 6 mystery wines. The exam itself will consist of 3 units - a multiple choice paper of 50 questions, a question paper requiring short written answers and (terrifyingly) an internally set and assessed blind tasting of one wine. We will be required to judge its appearance, aroma and flavour characteristics, then attempt to name it from a list of 4 possibles, as well as give it a retail price.
Help. I suddenly consider that perhaps I have been too ambitious and should really stick to flower arranging or French conversation classes. One hour, and lots of swirling and spitting later, Wine Goose concludes that she is actually quite good at picking up aroma and flavour characteristics, but needs to work on assessing tannin and acidity levels. It's a starting point, and she resolves to work on these weak points during the coming week. The lecturer sends everybody home with a clear message that they should read and absorb the chapter on French wine regions and wine laws by the following week. My heart sinks with the realisation that I am really up against it - my initial advantage has been completely wiped out. It is the summer holidays and Wine Goose devotes 12-14 hours of each day to pandering to the children's requirements. This does not leave much time for reading, much less retaining, any information.
But Wine Goose does not give up easily and continues to attend the lectures each week, hoping to absorb the necessary information to pass the exam (ambitions of achieving a Distinction have now been abandoned). And no more blogs until that exam is over. For a delicious summer dessert requiring minimum preparation simply pour some Pedro Ximinez sherry over a bowl of HB vanilla ice cream. Made entirely from Pedro Ximenez grapes that have been allowed to dry for two weeks in the sun after the harvest, this sherry is deep golden brown color, rich, sweet, and full bodied. It has an aroma of caramel and roasted nuts with a buttery, creamy richness on the palate and a luxuriously long finish. Good value at €12.50 for a half bottle (37.5 l), 17% alcohol.
According to the Wine & Spirit Education Trust (WSET), the qualification objective is to provide a core knowledge of the wide range of wines and spirits around the world to equip those in a supervisory capacity with the authority and confidence to make informed decisions in a wide variety of trade situations. It is intended for people employed in the drinks and hospitality industries needing core information to advise with authority and make informed selections of wines and spirits; and also wine connoisseurs who wish to learn about wines and spirits in a rigorous and structured manner and gain an internationally recognised wine and spirit qualification.
Wine Goose considers that because of her part-time work in a Wine Shop she will have a considerable advantage over her fellow students and strolls confidently into the musty hotel conference room for the first lecture. Tonight's topic is broadly titled 'Winemaking', and deals with grape varieties, climate and weather, soils and topography, viticulture, vinification, maturation and bottling. She arrives early - there is more to an evening class to just studying and Wine Goose is keen to suss out her fellow students from an advantageous position at the back of the class. Predictably they are a mix of male and female, young and old, big and small; drawn from all walks of life and all keen to further their knowledge or keep their brains operational until time takes its inevitable toll and the process of forgetting everything ever learnt begins to take place. Wine Goose has a foot in both camps.
Very soon it becomes clear that this is not going to be easy. Various methods of training and pruning vines are presented, along with reasons for and against using them in particular wine regions, all of which we are expected to remember. Well I might have some chance if the presentation wasn't immediately followed by complicated diagrams of the fermentation process. My brain, by which I mean the small part that didn't turn to mush immediately following the birth of my first child, is filled to bursting point but there's more to come - vineyard pests and diseases. Carry this lecture on for an hour longer and the course can change its name to 'Cures for Insomnia'. Wine Goose glances around her in desperation - but all eyes are fully focused on the lecturer and what he has to say. Panic sets in, and Wine Goose considers fleeing. Surely at this early stage she can escape unnoticed. But then a reprieve - it's tasting time. Each student places 6 ISO tasting glasses on his or her desk and is served a small amount of 6 mystery wines. The exam itself will consist of 3 units - a multiple choice paper of 50 questions, a question paper requiring short written answers and (terrifyingly) an internally set and assessed blind tasting of one wine. We will be required to judge its appearance, aroma and flavour characteristics, then attempt to name it from a list of 4 possibles, as well as give it a retail price.
Help. I suddenly consider that perhaps I have been too ambitious and should really stick to flower arranging or French conversation classes. One hour, and lots of swirling and spitting later, Wine Goose concludes that she is actually quite good at picking up aroma and flavour characteristics, but needs to work on assessing tannin and acidity levels. It's a starting point, and she resolves to work on these weak points during the coming week. The lecturer sends everybody home with a clear message that they should read and absorb the chapter on French wine regions and wine laws by the following week. My heart sinks with the realisation that I am really up against it - my initial advantage has been completely wiped out. It is the summer holidays and Wine Goose devotes 12-14 hours of each day to pandering to the children's requirements. This does not leave much time for reading, much less retaining, any information.
But Wine Goose does not give up easily and continues to attend the lectures each week, hoping to absorb the necessary information to pass the exam (ambitions of achieving a Distinction have now been abandoned). And no more blogs until that exam is over. For a delicious summer dessert requiring minimum preparation simply pour some Pedro Ximinez sherry over a bowl of HB vanilla ice cream. Made entirely from Pedro Ximenez grapes that have been allowed to dry for two weeks in the sun after the harvest, this sherry is deep golden brown color, rich, sweet, and full bodied. It has an aroma of caramel and roasted nuts with a buttery, creamy richness on the palate and a luxuriously long finish. Good value at €12.50 for a half bottle (37.5 l), 17% alcohol.
Sunday, 27 July 2008
Venetian Holiday
Wine Goose awakes early, tiptoes out of her bedroom to the adjacent kitchen, peers out the window before satisfying herself that it is safe to emerge, and then hauls open the double doors to the balcony. A weak Adriatic sun greets her efforts and she sets about arranging the terrace table so that Mr R and the children will enjoy a sun shaded breakfast. First mission completed she now quietly collects her wallet, dons her Fit Flops, then descends the stairs before making the short journey to the local supermarket.
En route she is joined by an international mixture of fellow holiday makers - Germans, Dutch, Austrian, Swiss, English, Irish, Italian - work hard all year and you too shall be rewarded with your fortnight in the sun. The enthusiasm is catching. On arrival at the local shop Wine Goose works hard at hiding her astonishment at the prices. Despite loading her basket with luxury items her breakfast bill does not exceed €10.00 and she returns to her family with renewed vigour.
After breakfast a replete and clearly relaxed Mr R suggests a visit to the local beach. The offer is greeted with delight by the kids and Wine Goose swings into action, getting them into their swimsuits and applying sunscreen. Can't the manufacturers do a little more ground research before they launch this stuff on the public? A fortnight of twice daily applications is enough to drive a normally sane housewife to a home holiday. Bad enough that the children will not stand still, the stuff refuses to come out of the bottle unless in a massive gloop, and then adheres not only to the children but also to both sides of the mothers hand, with no possibility of removal until they are completely covered. Add the insufferable heat and it almost becomes unbearable. But it has to be done - to appear with sunburnt kids nowadays is akin to admitting to following Kabullah. Offering up a silent prayer for the days when they eventually take off to Ibiza with their classmates, Wine Goose hooshes the children out the door in the direction of the beach. Only when they are out of sight does she interrupt Mr R's persistent novel reading and send him sprinting in their wake.
Following a frantic session of washing-up dishes and sorting clothes Wine Goose joins the family on the gently shelving pleasantly warmed Adriatic shores. 'Where were you mummy?' asks our son. 'Oh, just back at the house applying suntan lotion' I reply. That afternoon, after yet another sleepless siesta and following a hectic session of child-watching at the swimming pool Wine Goose decides it's time for her to take a break from catering, and calls Mr R's bluff. She suggests that he comes good on his threat of cooking one of his signature dishes - Spaghetti alla Bolognese, something that he has heretofore claimed can only be achieved in the land of it's origin, with the requisite ingredients to hand. The entire family is happy to march him to the supermarket. The children are admirable in their ability to sniff out the finest peppers, mushrooms, carrots, aubergines and onions. A new take on the classic dish - Jamie Oliver watch out.
Whilst they are seemingly occupied with shopping Wine Goose takes a few minutes to wander the wine aisle. She is not expecting miracles, hoping only for a reasonably priced bottle of Chianti Classico or maybe even a Bardolino. Initially it seems like she might be correct in her prediction. The supermarket is clearly catering to the holiday market - Muller-Thurgau abounds. This is a spectacularly underperforming variety, offering wines of neutral flavours, but its a name that's familiar to the German market, and Wine Goose notices more than a few large bottles being removed from the shelves. Then there's Lambrusco. Keep walking; dolce (sweet) and amabile (semi-sweet) versions are enough to send the seasoned wine lover running for cover. But then she spots it. Hidden at the back of a shelf lurks a bottle of Lambrusco Secco - Wine Goose pounces - there is no more perfect accompaniment to Italian tomato based dishes. A lightly sparkling red wine, it has lots of fruit and just the correct amount of acidity to balance a superlative Bolognaise dish. Can Mr R deliver a meal that matches up to the wine? Readers, watch this space....
En route she is joined by an international mixture of fellow holiday makers - Germans, Dutch, Austrian, Swiss, English, Irish, Italian - work hard all year and you too shall be rewarded with your fortnight in the sun. The enthusiasm is catching. On arrival at the local shop Wine Goose works hard at hiding her astonishment at the prices. Despite loading her basket with luxury items her breakfast bill does not exceed €10.00 and she returns to her family with renewed vigour.
After breakfast a replete and clearly relaxed Mr R suggests a visit to the local beach. The offer is greeted with delight by the kids and Wine Goose swings into action, getting them into their swimsuits and applying sunscreen. Can't the manufacturers do a little more ground research before they launch this stuff on the public? A fortnight of twice daily applications is enough to drive a normally sane housewife to a home holiday. Bad enough that the children will not stand still, the stuff refuses to come out of the bottle unless in a massive gloop, and then adheres not only to the children but also to both sides of the mothers hand, with no possibility of removal until they are completely covered. Add the insufferable heat and it almost becomes unbearable. But it has to be done - to appear with sunburnt kids nowadays is akin to admitting to following Kabullah. Offering up a silent prayer for the days when they eventually take off to Ibiza with their classmates, Wine Goose hooshes the children out the door in the direction of the beach. Only when they are out of sight does she interrupt Mr R's persistent novel reading and send him sprinting in their wake.
Following a frantic session of washing-up dishes and sorting clothes Wine Goose joins the family on the gently shelving pleasantly warmed Adriatic shores. 'Where were you mummy?' asks our son. 'Oh, just back at the house applying suntan lotion' I reply. That afternoon, after yet another sleepless siesta and following a hectic session of child-watching at the swimming pool Wine Goose decides it's time for her to take a break from catering, and calls Mr R's bluff. She suggests that he comes good on his threat of cooking one of his signature dishes - Spaghetti alla Bolognese, something that he has heretofore claimed can only be achieved in the land of it's origin, with the requisite ingredients to hand. The entire family is happy to march him to the supermarket. The children are admirable in their ability to sniff out the finest peppers, mushrooms, carrots, aubergines and onions. A new take on the classic dish - Jamie Oliver watch out.
Whilst they are seemingly occupied with shopping Wine Goose takes a few minutes to wander the wine aisle. She is not expecting miracles, hoping only for a reasonably priced bottle of Chianti Classico or maybe even a Bardolino. Initially it seems like she might be correct in her prediction. The supermarket is clearly catering to the holiday market - Muller-Thurgau abounds. This is a spectacularly underperforming variety, offering wines of neutral flavours, but its a name that's familiar to the German market, and Wine Goose notices more than a few large bottles being removed from the shelves. Then there's Lambrusco. Keep walking; dolce (sweet) and amabile (semi-sweet) versions are enough to send the seasoned wine lover running for cover. But then she spots it. Hidden at the back of a shelf lurks a bottle of Lambrusco Secco - Wine Goose pounces - there is no more perfect accompaniment to Italian tomato based dishes. A lightly sparkling red wine, it has lots of fruit and just the correct amount of acidity to balance a superlative Bolognaise dish. Can Mr R deliver a meal that matches up to the wine? Readers, watch this space....
Friday, 27 June 2008
Bouncy Castle
To celebrate the occasion of our son's 4th birthday, we have agreed to his request for a Bouncy Castle. Said castle is booked (Spiderman), invitations issued and themed tableware ordered. Acceptances pour in and Wine Goose spends her 'free' mornings trawling supermarkets and €2 shops for innovative tat and cut-price sweets to fill the obligatory party bags.
On the eve of big day, the castle arrives and is sneaked into the garden as the children listen to bedtime stories. Wine Goose gets a quick demonstration and list of instructions from the supplier, then off he goes to enjoy his weekend, mentioning as he leaves that he can't collect it until the following Tuesday. We have four full days of bouncing ahead of us. Wine Goose is delighted by the prospect and envisages inviting all the neighbouring children around for a bounce in the days after the party.
Mr R sinks heavily down into his armchair, puts his head in his hands and asks if Wine Goose has checked if the supplier is insured. If anything was further from her mind Wine Goose can not at this moment think of it. Mr R reacts to this news by burying his head deeper in his hands and sighing deeply. He then goes on to suggest a litany of possible accidents that might happen, starting with minor bumps and bruises then working all the way up to spinal injuries and worse. Wine Goose reacts by opening a bottle of Valpolicella Classico, a light, fruity quaffing wine. She suspects that with the direction the conversation is taking she has quite some quaffing in front of her. There isn't really much she can say, but as she lurches off to bed she suggests to Mr R that perhaps the afternoon will pass without incident and the young guests will go home with happy memories of the party. He nods grimly. Wine Goose then spends the next 8 hours tossing and turning, scenes worse than those suggested by Mr R play themselves out in her head in the early hours, so that she is utterly exhausted by dawn. Mr R sleeps soundly, and awakes refreshed.
The unsuspecting children arrive down for breakfast to find a vast plastic carpet has taken over the garden; they have absolutely no idea what it can be and are thrilled when Mr R plugs it in. The bouncing begins, closely monitored by Mr R of course. Wine Goose is busy preparing the house so does not have time to dwell on potential disasters. The guests begin to arrive and launch themselves at the inflatable structure. No chance of limiting them to the recommended maximum of six at a time. One mother remarks on our bravery 'after what happened in England' as she sails out the door. Wine Goose offers up a silent prayer that Mr R is well out of earshot and wishes her an enjoyable afternoon. Mercifully the party not only passes without incident, but is a huge success, and weeks later is still being talked about by our son and his peers.
On the eve of big day, the castle arrives and is sneaked into the garden as the children listen to bedtime stories. Wine Goose gets a quick demonstration and list of instructions from the supplier, then off he goes to enjoy his weekend, mentioning as he leaves that he can't collect it until the following Tuesday. We have four full days of bouncing ahead of us. Wine Goose is delighted by the prospect and envisages inviting all the neighbouring children around for a bounce in the days after the party.
Mr R sinks heavily down into his armchair, puts his head in his hands and asks if Wine Goose has checked if the supplier is insured. If anything was further from her mind Wine Goose can not at this moment think of it. Mr R reacts to this news by burying his head deeper in his hands and sighing deeply. He then goes on to suggest a litany of possible accidents that might happen, starting with minor bumps and bruises then working all the way up to spinal injuries and worse. Wine Goose reacts by opening a bottle of Valpolicella Classico, a light, fruity quaffing wine. She suspects that with the direction the conversation is taking she has quite some quaffing in front of her. There isn't really much she can say, but as she lurches off to bed she suggests to Mr R that perhaps the afternoon will pass without incident and the young guests will go home with happy memories of the party. He nods grimly. Wine Goose then spends the next 8 hours tossing and turning, scenes worse than those suggested by Mr R play themselves out in her head in the early hours, so that she is utterly exhausted by dawn. Mr R sleeps soundly, and awakes refreshed.
The unsuspecting children arrive down for breakfast to find a vast plastic carpet has taken over the garden; they have absolutely no idea what it can be and are thrilled when Mr R plugs it in. The bouncing begins, closely monitored by Mr R of course. Wine Goose is busy preparing the house so does not have time to dwell on potential disasters. The guests begin to arrive and launch themselves at the inflatable structure. No chance of limiting them to the recommended maximum of six at a time. One mother remarks on our bravery 'after what happened in England' as she sails out the door. Wine Goose offers up a silent prayer that Mr R is well out of earshot and wishes her an enjoyable afternoon. Mercifully the party not only passes without incident, but is a huge success, and weeks later is still being talked about by our son and his peers.
Saturday, 31 May 2008
Package Holiday - end
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have now commenced our descent and in 10 minutes will be landing at Seville airport" announces Flight Attendant Anita. It is her first day on the tannoy and already she has irritated most of the passengers beyond belief with her annoying accent, poor pronunciation and erroneous announcements. She then goes blabbering on about fastening seat belts, extinguishing cigarettes (?) and putting seat backs in the upright position. But nobody is listening, Anita lost our attention the moment she uttered the word Seville. We all thought we were going directly to Dublin, so now there is intense speculation among the passengers as to the reasons for this sudden change of plan.
Wine Goose first checks that there are no flames licking the exterior of the aircraft. She then reassures herself that the back of the airplane has not become separated from the front. (No, she does not watch Lost, she does not have time. She has however seen the teasers many times and is familiar with the way the aircraft splits into two parts). Satisfied that whatever the problem is, it seems that we may well make it to Seville before disaster strikes; she turns to discuss the situation with Mr R, and those in the surrounding seats. What is about these type of announcements that prompt passengers to start talking disaster? The conversations start with "last year I was on a flight that overshot the runway," or "a friend of mine was on a flight from the Canaries that had to make an emergency landing in Spain a few weeks ago."
Wine Goose is not particularly superstitious, but she would prefer to withhold discussing such stories until she has been safely delivered into the terminal building. Now, she decides, thousands of feet above terra firma, is probably a better time to reflect on the falling value of her family home in the suburbs, or some such rubbish. And so she relaxes back into her seat, sort of, given that she has a young child on each side and is on an aircraft. "Mummy I need to go to the toilet" whispers our son. "That's fine, darling, as soon as we touch down in Seville we'll get you in there, only 2 minutes to go". Cue Anita: "Ladies and yentlemen (sp), during our refuelling stop in Seville, the toilets will be closED". We touch down; Wine Goose takes her son firmly by the hand and presents him to the first available flight attendant. "This little boy needs to go to the toilet. The toilets are closED" is the predictable response. So just how should Wine Goose respond "Well that's fine, he's 3 years old and will wait for another 2 hours while you useless fuel miscalculators refill the plane". The hell. Wine Goose suggests to her son that he find a suitable corner for his wee-wee. The toilets are magically reopened. For the next 2 hours, on the boiling hot tarmac of Seville airport, child after child files past to go to the toilet. Score 1 Wine Goose.
Then, hours later than planned, we arrive back at Dublin airport. Exhausted. Rather than battle with the fallout of the Sunday game at Croke Park Mr R decides to splash out on a taxi home. All the sooner to deal with the empty fridge, mountains of laundry, overgrown garden, piles of post....Vive les vacances. What else can Wine Goose do but pour herself a glass of deliciously fresh and fruity Torres Vina Sol, horribly sobering at €10.00 a bottle.
Wine Goose first checks that there are no flames licking the exterior of the aircraft. She then reassures herself that the back of the airplane has not become separated from the front. (No, she does not watch Lost, she does not have time. She has however seen the teasers many times and is familiar with the way the aircraft splits into two parts). Satisfied that whatever the problem is, it seems that we may well make it to Seville before disaster strikes; she turns to discuss the situation with Mr R, and those in the surrounding seats. What is about these type of announcements that prompt passengers to start talking disaster? The conversations start with "last year I was on a flight that overshot the runway," or "a friend of mine was on a flight from the Canaries that had to make an emergency landing in Spain a few weeks ago."
Wine Goose is not particularly superstitious, but she would prefer to withhold discussing such stories until she has been safely delivered into the terminal building. Now, she decides, thousands of feet above terra firma, is probably a better time to reflect on the falling value of her family home in the suburbs, or some such rubbish. And so she relaxes back into her seat, sort of, given that she has a young child on each side and is on an aircraft. "Mummy I need to go to the toilet" whispers our son. "That's fine, darling, as soon as we touch down in Seville we'll get you in there, only 2 minutes to go". Cue Anita: "Ladies and yentlemen (sp), during our refuelling stop in Seville, the toilets will be closED". We touch down; Wine Goose takes her son firmly by the hand and presents him to the first available flight attendant. "This little boy needs to go to the toilet. The toilets are closED" is the predictable response. So just how should Wine Goose respond "Well that's fine, he's 3 years old and will wait for another 2 hours while you useless fuel miscalculators refill the plane". The hell. Wine Goose suggests to her son that he find a suitable corner for his wee-wee. The toilets are magically reopened. For the next 2 hours, on the boiling hot tarmac of Seville airport, child after child files past to go to the toilet. Score 1 Wine Goose.
Then, hours later than planned, we arrive back at Dublin airport. Exhausted. Rather than battle with the fallout of the Sunday game at Croke Park Mr R decides to splash out on a taxi home. All the sooner to deal with the empty fridge, mountains of laundry, overgrown garden, piles of post....Vive les vacances. What else can Wine Goose do but pour herself a glass of deliciously fresh and fruity Torres Vina Sol, horribly sobering at €10.00 a bottle.
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
Package Holiday - middle
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).
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).
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