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. 

car park rage

I got to the school car park late one day last week. So, being one of the last in meant I drove past all the cars parked neatly in rows and went to the back of the yard, where I just about fitted in, at an angle. I could have to-ed and fro-ed a few times and got a bit straighter but I didn’t think it would make a difference. I said this to the woman who came in behind me, who was at a worse angle, but she said don’t worry, makes no difference to me either. Then, just as I was hopping out, toddler on hip, I saw two men, one granddad, one younger approaching. Like a fool I made eye contact.

Good Friday agreement

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.