Friday night
7.00 – Arrive home from work
7.30 – Leave for 50th birthday
2.00 – Stumble into bed
Saturday
9.30 – GAA. Herself refused to play and the boys drew the line at hurling. Michael got lost. Not a success.
12.00 – Lunch
2.00 – Horseriding for children in the Dublin mountains. Their kind aunt got them vouchers. They absolutely loved it. I spoke to a mother on the sidelines. “Three children riding, it’s going to be bread and water for you from now on.” Hmm. They may have to contain their enthusiasm.
4.00 – Work thing for me.
Sunday
13.30 – Lunch at a friend’s house
16.30 – V. pleasant walk in the war memorial gardens at Islandbridge
18.00 – Arrival of Hodge.
Dublin
It’s getting closer
First it was in the school; now it’s in her class:
Oi done da
That is how my son Daniel now says, “I did that”. He has a very good ear for languages and for music as well. While the others still sound broadly the same, Daniel has now completely adopted the demotic lingua franca of the playground. I had no idea that bringing up my children in Dublin was going to mean kissing goodbye to grammar.
Rough?
My brother tackled me last weekend about where we live. He has concerns that my children will end up wearing track suits all day every day and on remand in the district court. We had a robust discussion on the influence of parents versus that of peers, the nature of the local peers in what I would call a mixed area and whether it was fair to visit your social notions on your children which ended with one of us flouncing out of the room and banging the door. Isn’t it great the way when you are at your parents’ house you can revert to behaviour that was last given an airing in your teens?
Still, it all gave me pause for further thought. Our parish newsletter this week led with “The Gospel to the Gangland” which didn’t help. Then I went to a local park where F often takes the children. There were a bunch of Slovakian children there who seemed to know mine well. They were nice children and my boys were clearly delighted to see them. They were accompanied by a pleasant man (you know, not let out on their own running wild or anything) but I couldn’t help noticing that he had a tattoo on his neck. Did I not read somewhere that this is an invariable sign of gang membership? Or is it just a sign of a fondness for pain? In short, I feel that I am in territory where my mother never had to venture.
Give me a boy at seven
New acquaintance: And where did your husband go to school?
Me: Jesuit School X.
New acquaintance: Oh lovely, clever, sensitive boys.
I understand that Mr. Waffle’s school produced many chess champions but that they failed to star in rugby.
Grim
Our cleaner, A, is from Latvia. The other day he commented on how well herself spoke French. “We used to live in Belgium,” I explained. “How many languages do you speak?” I asked. “Russian and Latvian; I studied German at university but I have nearly forgotten it all now.”
The OECD economic survey of Ireland in 2008 found that “[m]ost migrants are young, well educated and work, but are often in basic jobs.” They’re not kidding.