Princess

Herself is very responsible. She was feeling a bit unwell the other day and she said, “I can’t be sick, I have so much to do.” I did sympathise.

She is the queen of committees and organising. She had to manage a cake sale after mass one Sunday. Her teacher and some fellow students were there. Her teacher asked her whether she would make an announcement that there was a cake sale after mass. “Does the priest know?” she asked. “No you just go up and tell him,” said the teacher. “During mass?” she asked shocked to the core of her being. “Yes,” said the teacher, “he won’t mind.” “He very much will,” said herself. She found some priestly acolyte and told her tale of woe and saw him telling the priest during the reading while the priest gave her the evil eye. “I’m going to go up at the end after communion” she told the teacher. It soon became abundantly clear that the teacher was a bit unsure as to where the end was as every time the congregation stood up, he would hiss to her, “Go up now, it’s ending now.” If you’ve ever been to mass, you know that standing up and sitting down again is part of the thrill. Eventually she said, “A mháistir, have you actually ever been to mass before? Leave it with me, my mother makes me go every Sunday, I know when it’s over.” She did.

She organised for a group of students and teachers from her school to go on the climate change march last month, much to the chagrin of her brother Michael, it has to be said, who would have preferred to be at basketball practice and peeled off as early as possible.

So on this evening she was sick, I knew she would have lots on and I asked what she had to do. “Well, I have to email my work experience to let them know that I won’t be in on Monday because I’m going to that school trust conference I helped organise; I have to prepare a presentation on climate change to give at the conference and it has to not overlap with R’s which will be difficult because when I thought she was doing the only presentation, I gave her all my material; I have to ring the principal of my primary school and agree to a date to go in and talk to the students about this charity we’re fundraising for; I have to do an essay on the hijab in French and an essay on the Rwandan genocide in Irish which is difficult because we watched a film in English and it’s always harder to write about something in Irish when you’ve learnt about it in English; I have an essay on American exceptionalism for my law and politics course; and I have to finalise my entry for the translation competition.”

“Goodness,” I said, “maybe you could drop the translation competition.” “Nope,” she said, “it’s a cash prize and I need the money.”

I told Mr. Waffle about her list of tasks. He said, “Does it strike you that our 15 year old daughter has a curiously adult to do list?” Certainly quite exhausting in any event. You will be pleased to hear that she was much better in the morning which, frankly, was just as well.

There is a nun in her early 80s attached to the children’s school. They absolutely love her. I have to say, I find her a bit unnerving myself and when I meet her I feel she is judging me and finding me wanting. This may just be my early conditioning.

Herself tells me that the nun is doing meditation with her year. Apparently, they are told to sit quietly with their eyes closed and imagine Jesus coming towards them in the light. “How is that for you?” I asked. “Well, I always want to ask ‘Are we dead, sister?'” Not great then, I suppose.

They had a CPR class as well. They were supposed to wear their gym gear for resuscitating people but, as always the case, half the class had forgotten to wear the correct gear. The teacher sent them up to the home ec room to borrow the school basketball gear which is kept there after being washed every time by the home ec teacher (completely unclear to me why they can’t buy their own basketball gear but this is how it works – as I understand it, no one regrets this more than the home ec teacher who has the washing machine going in her classroom almost all the time). They charged up and changed. When the man from the first aid training man arrived, he took one look at the kids wearing basketball gear and sent them off to change before they caught their deaths of cold. Such is the exciting nature of Transition Year.

Herself is starting her work experience for a series of ten Mondays on the 25th and I am very curious as to how it will go for her. Hang on to your hats people.

Herself is doing volcanoes in geography again. Is there no end to them?

The geography teacher asked for a volcano in Africa. “I’ll give you a clue,” said he, “it features in a famous song.” He scanned the classroom.

Which misfortunate child was, due to her parents’ irredeemably dreadful music taste, able to say, “Sir, I think it’s Kilimanjaro and your reference is to “Africa” by Toto.”

Herself has rescued her father’s tape deck from his parents’ house. She is delighted with the way it doesn’t know what she’s doing or take a note of what music she’s listening to. She’s pre-ordered Hozier’s new album on tape to take further advantage of this.

She’s started to whisper when there are phones in the room as she points out that they are always listening to us. I know this is true as Siri perks up and talks occasionally, and disconcertingly, when I am at meetings. She is less inclined to do this when I intentionally say, “Hey Siri.”

Lads, I’m beginning to wonder whether we should all go back to the tape deck.