Ireland vs Spain

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.