We were in agreement. Good Friday morning would be spent
clearing out the upstairs cupboards and, in the afternoon, we’d head for the
Dublin Mountains to get a bit of fresh air.
The kids attempted, as they usually do, to cut a deal. “I’ll
go if you take us to Smyths Toy store on the way home.” “I’ll go if you set me
up a YouTube account” and, slightly more reasonably, “I’ll go if you bring a
picnic.” (I blame myself. Years of supernannying, rewards and behavioural
contracts have taken their toll. These guys are intent on turning the tables.)
After making clear
that we were just going, with no
addendums or codicils, we busied ourselves with the clear-out upstairs and successfully
blocked our ears to any mutinous mutterings.
It was only when everyone was strapped into the car that I realised
we weren’t headed where I thought we were.
