At mass, Michael announced to me in an under-voice, “Two boys from my class say that there is no Santa.” “Rubbish. Who brings the presents then?” I asked. “They’re not sure, maybe another magic person.”
Michael
How Does the Human Race Survive?
Michael: Ow, ow, ow.
Me: What happened?
Michael: I put my eye on to the bulb at the centre of the Death Star to look at it closely and burnt my eyelid. Ow, ow, ow.
What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
We were supposed to spend last Monday packing to move house on Tuesday. Alas, the carpet fitter who arrived on Saturday arrived with one carpet too few. After some anguish, we put the move off to this Friday. On the plus side, I’m really hoping that varnish downstairs will be dry.
Unfortunately, the Princess had already boxed up all her books and she spent the weekend pacing the house in a state of considerable bitterness. Re-opening of the library on Tuesday was greeted with ecstasy. Meanwhile, the boys have fallen out over who owns what as, for the first time, they have to separate their worldly goods into two rooms.
Wish us luck for tomorrow.
Finite Incantatem
For the last number of weeks, the children have been waving chopsticks around and shouting “Stupefy” and “Expelliarmus”. They have printed off lists of spells from the internet which is disturbingly thorough in this regard. They are working their way through them. This game is showing no signs of palling. Daniel, who is chameleon-like in relation to accents, has decided that an English accent is best for casting spells, so we have a little boy with glasses running around, waving a chopstick and shouting out Latin(ish) words in an English accent. It’s all very odd.
The Battle of the Boyne
We visited the site of the Battle of the Boyne a number of years ago. It made a lasting impression on the children. The other night, Michael asked me for a Jacobite biscuit. Some probing revealed that he meant a Jacob’s cream cracker. That is all.
Céad Fhaoistin
The boys made their first confession this evening. Their sister sang in the school choir. They were all a mass of tension. Herself because she had a solo; the boys because they had to confess their sins and in Irish to boot. I had read them Frank O’Connor’s “First Confession” to get them in the mood.
It all passed off peacefully. The children did a drama on the altar about the lamb who had gone astray (Michael was the lamb) and then went up and made their first confession. It’s a lovely ceremony. The priest told them, quite mendaciously (one assumes), that he had been speaking to the new Pope who had said they were all good boys and girls. When he asked where the Pope was from, there was a forest of hands which did not include Michael’s. He was leaning over the edge of the pew examining the parquet flooring. Daniel, however, was a credit to us and very serious, sober and upright throughout.
At the end, Michael asked me whether he could now get the “holy bread” at mass on Sunday thus showing his, alas, utter ignorance of the nature of the sacrament of reconciliation which he had just received. He appears to have fatally confused first confession and first communion. This might be remedied, if I made known to him the likely cash bonanza that his first communion will bring but I feel that this is hardly in the spirit of the sacrament.
We all went for a drink and the children have just now been whisked off to bed. And tomorrow we’re flying to London. It’s just non-stop excitement.
