Dublin

Last Thursday was St. Patrick’s Day. I dutifully started the day at mass. Further exposure to Saint Paul who continues to show his excellent turn of phrase and unbearable smugness:

“I have fought the good fight to the end; I have run the race to the finish; I have kept the faith; all there is to come now is the crown of righteousness reserved for me, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will give me on that Day..”

We took the children to the parade which was based on a short story by Roddy Doyle. Unfortunately only one of us had got around to reading the story and she was reluctant to share any of the details with her loving family. Nevertheless, it was all moderately entertaining.

In one aspect, it failed to please. The children had been saving their pennies to spend with the hawkers of St. Patrick’s day tat. Unfortunately, as we arrived, the gardaí were rounding up the illegal vendors’ stock for confiscation. One guard in his high-vis vest, was vigourously pushing a large old fashioned pram weighed down with horns, wigs, scarves and flags while being impotuned by an elderly, extraordinarily wrinkled lady. As he unloaded her tat into the van, my children went rushing up to ask whether they could buy some of it. Not a happy scene, I have to tell you.

Did I tell you that we are thinking of moving house? Well, we are. The man from the estate agent’s came around to look at the house and after some humming and hawing told me that it is now worth only just over two thirds of what we paid for it in 2002. Oh the pain.