Coming home
from school the other day, I noticed a Spanish boy walking in front of me. I
knew where he was from because the local national school runs a programme where
children from Spain aged ten and up can come
over to Dublin for a few weeks to live with an Irish family and attend the
local school each day. English immersion, I suppose you'd call it.
It was a wet,
windy day, and I was wondering when, if ever, is a good time to put away the
vests and hats and gloves. We were nearly home though, and two out of three of
my sons had homework vouchers, so it wasn’t all bad.
This boy was
walking behind the son of his host family and to say he looked different was an
understatement.
For a start, he was
walking, not slouching. On his feet were shoes. Not runners or trainers or
smelly, checked vans. Actual, leather shoes. Slip-on, dark maroon, polished
oxford loafers to be precise. I could
see that his charcoal grey school trousers had a crease down the front you
could cut yourself on (this, after a full day at school) and with them he wore
a clean, beautifully cut, navy, quilted jacket. It was buttoned up (yes,
buttoned up) and his hair seemed to be pretty close friends with a brush or
comb. And, he was carrying and using….an
umbrella.
In contrast,
his Irish classmate, who wore the ubiquitous baggy, faded school tracksuit and
luminous orange astroturf boots with laces trailing in the puddles, mooched
along in the rain, hair soaking and school bag (bulging, most likely because it contained his jacket) on his back. To top
it all, in place of making conversation with his guest, he was listening to music
on his mobile phone.
No wonder
they beat us.
P.s. To put this into context for any readers not in Ireland, we were beaten last night four nil by Spain in a pretty important soccer match. When I say important, I mean hopes were high. Some people even had specially made nylon covers in the colours of the Irish flag on the wing mirrors of their cars.
