Wuff with the Smooth: Weathervanes

An ongoing debate at home this weather is whether or not Waffle will be accompanying us on our forthcoming holiday to Wexford.

It’s a sticky one: While I like the idea of playing fetch with the Hairy Fool on the beach or watching him splash around in rock pools, I’m not sure the long journey south would be to his – or any of his travelling companions’ – liking.

You know when you’re ringing your bank or your internet provider or, in fact, any public service and you’re faced with an automated voice interspersed with random muzak? At first you might take a deep breath as you prepare for the long haul.

“We are experiencing an unusually high volume of calls,” the voice will say after a spell of muzak. “However, your call is important to us. There are more than five people in front of you in the queue. If you would like a call back, press ‘one’. If you would like to remain in the queue, our next advisor will be with you as soon as possible.”

Another deep breath will be required as the automated voice presents you with this inane and useless information for the third time. But by the tenth time you hear it, your knuckles might be turning white on the phone and you might be murmuring, “You can’t always be experiencing an unusually high volume of calls – that’s not how the word ‘unusual’ works.”

At some point you might take the phone away from your ear to see how long you’ve been on the call.

“I’m gonna ask whoever answers this call how many friggin’ people they have working in the office – just the wan? By jeez, but I’m gonna put the boot in.”

Now imagine four hours of this excruciating automated voice and exponentially mounting frustration. That’s what it would be like if Waffle came along and whined the whole four hours down the road to Wexford.

At first I’ll take the deep breath in preparation for the long haul but eventually, at some point, I’ll crack.

“But it’d be nice taking him for a walk into Blackwater in the evenings,” one of the little humans will say.

“Aye, and Waffle will whine like a wean with a slapped arse the whole way.”

No, we’ve been here too many times before. Day trips to Rossnowlagh become exercises in blood pressure management – and God forbid you’d tie him up outside a shop iffing you need a cold drink at some point.

“No, no, no,” I’ve been telling them. “We’ve been through this umpteen times.

“He’s a whingey plonker and that’s the end of it. I couldn’t listen to him for ten minutes never mind four hours.”

With several weeks remaining until departure for Ireland’s sunny southeast, the ‘will we or won’t we bring Waffle’ discussion remains very much on the agenda. While the little humans reckon they’ll eventually have their way, I’m digging in like a hungry tick.

However, following a ‘will we, won’t we’ powwow at the kitchen table earlier this week and to illustrate my own weathervane fickleness, Herself related a tale. It’s a tale I myself have recounted from time to time and it goes like this…

Some moons ago, after we had moved to our current abode, Herself took the liberty of registering us both for voting. “That’s grand,” I ses to meself, “but I won’t be voting.” On the eve of the election, she reminded me that on the morrow we’d be casting our ballots.

“No thanks,” I said. “You go right ahead; I’ll be grand.”

That was how it was left until the following evening whereby Herself persisted, “Are you right? We’ll go and vote now.”

“I’m not going.”

“Why not?”

“It doesn’t matter who I vote for. The same aul heads get in every time. Doesn’t matter who gets my vote. It’s absolutely pointless and a complete waste of time. I’m exercising my democratic right not to vote. You go on ahead without me. I’m definitely not going. Not a hope.”

Herself suggested, “I’ll take you for a pint after.”

“I’ll get my coat.”