It’s all excitement this week. End of first term and it’s Y4’s turn for assembly. As they are learning about all things Roman, the women in our house have to go donned as Roman soldiers. So, no pressure, I had to make a costume. This is a challenge. I am not creative. I can’t do fancy fairy cakes or make Christmas decorations. Our house, growing up, didn’t have a plethora of pipe cleaners, coloured crepe paper and glitter. The inside of a toilet roll or cornflake box at a stretch, maybe. Who, in all fairness, ever had pipe-cleaners at the ready? None of the houses on our row, that’s for sure. More often than not we couldn’t even find a scissors, don’t mind paper glue. The most I can stretch to at birthday parties are RiceCrispie buns and even at that the crispie to chocolate ratio is like a dodgy concrete mix, more stones than cement. But I have to say, Mary-Make-n-do-Fitzgerald would be propa proud of my endeavours to make a Roman soldier costume from one of the many cardboard boxes stacked in the garage. I didn’t even need a grown up to help me. There isn’t a shred of tinfoil or string left in the kitchen after my capers. The McCarthy crest was sourced, complete with Latin motto (had to get down with the local lingo of them Roman boys) and ensconced on their armour. Hence my Roman Cailíní were fortis, ferox et celer as they marched around the school hall with their legion, prepared for battle. Just as well I went to some effort as many others had pulled out all the stops.
After assembly we are like coiled springs. A mix of anticipation and agitation. It’s tangible. Our first trip home to the auld sod is imminent. ‘Are we going on the blue plane or the green plane to Ireland’ asks the Middle one. It’s always the blue plane which necessitates packing belongings for a family of 5 for a week into A4 sized envelopes. I hate tha! It’s the strangest feeling. I should be excited but the exhilaration of going home is tainted with knowing we have to come back. There will be more goodbyes. We are returning as visitors to our homes. I question whether I have any emotional fuel left in the tank. Nonetheless I cannot wait to see everyone. The kids will meet their Irish school friends and exchange tales of who is playing with who and their favourites on XFactor. I look forward to walking down Quay Street, maybe go for a pint in Naughtons. You don’t hear ‘how’s things!’ or ‘how ya gittin on!’ in Thame. It will be nice to tune into the Galway accent and top up the kids Irish twang as the English one creeps in. I miss the sea so off to the Prom and after kicking the wall I may be found at the top of the tower in Blackrock filling my lungs with Atlantic air. I might even sleep in the shelter for the night. ‘Well...are ye settled yet’ will be difficult to answer. It’s early days. An Irish lady I have got to know ovah, has been living here 20 years. Still finds it hard coming back following trips home to Ireland. That’s comforting. The Youngest wonders about the smell of people’s homes and thinks that the house in Galway will have lost our smell. She’s right, each home has its own aroma. She hopes her clothes come back from Clonmel and Galway with a smell of the Nanas’ houses. I’ve no doubt they will.
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