Back in Kenmare, we have been hit with an unseasonable spell of warm weather. The Irish rioted because the Minister of Education wouldn’t extend school holidays to take advantage of it; the entire country phoned in to radio stations bitterly lamenting why ‘that hairy bollox’ couldn’t show a little bit of human decency and/or compassion and let the little wans enjoy their last bit of freedom before they had to grow up and get mortgages and pension schemes.
The Irish really are completely, fabulously nutso. I listen to the radio whenever I can:
“So, you went to stay in a rather unusual place-“
“Oh right, yea I did, yea. It was an Orc community, like- you know Lord of the Rings? That sort of stuff, residents running around Dungeons and Dragons like with pointy ears-“
“No, no, stick on ones-“
“So, before we wind up now- oh, actually we should have been off the air three minutes ago. Just quickly then, what do you think of Elvis?”
“Elvis, you know, The King. ‘Thnkyouvermuch’.”
“Elvis? Mad overrated. Awful feckin’ gobshite, especially-“
“Sorry, I don’t think you can say that on air.”
“Ah well now, I just did.”
I have settled into the place with ridiculous ease. Andrew was supposed to come over in early October, but the NZ Embassy was into its fourth month renewing his passport.
Mum and Dad are in great form. I was surprised to realise that Dad has been an auxiliary minister for nearly ten years – he and Mum moved to Kenmare shortly before I went to Dubai. He has just been made a Canon. It’s not the same as canonisation, which is sainthood, but he’s heading in the right direction. I think he gets fast-tracked into heaven – at least, there don’t appear to be any other perks, apart from the numerous opportunities for corny jokes (he’s easier to fire etc).
It’s awful pressure being a priest’s daughter though. People always think you’re wild and reprobate, partying and shagging until all hours.
“The priest’s children and the miller’s cow never do well,” according to Edel. It’s a German proverb, apparently; and the first time I’ve ever been compared to a miller’s cow. Possibly not the last.
When Mum isn’t playing golf, she’s usually in the kitchen entertaining visitors, dodging Dad (who wanders around presumably blessing stuff), airing language entirely unsuited to a Rector’s wife, answering the phone, baking scones, bread and quiche, and preventing Ceara slinging food; and all at the same time