Fiannafailium leviosa

There is a line from a Martin McDonagh play, in which during my am dram days I played one of the auld aunts (whilst heavily pregnant I might add), that goes something like  ‘it’ll all end in tears...tears or death...tears death or worse’. Maybe this is worse. The bailout. We are the pariahs of Europe. And to make matter worse the English media are all to do about their £7 billion. Don’t spend it all in the one shop. We all know it’s in their interest over here, there is nothing truly altruistic about it. After all it is a loan, terms and conditions do apply. And need we forget the English exchequer stands to make a nice few bob with interest. Anyhow they are just lending Ireland the money so we can continue to buy their exports, isn’t that the way it works? It’s hard to keep up as all things economic and political keep changing by the hour. All any of us know is when the cigire from the IMF get the red biro at the budget who knows how we will get hammered on cuts and taxes. And I say we because even though we have made the move, we are giving it a go over here, much depends for us on how things are going at home and it’s beginning to look more long term than we thought. It will feel like limbo for a while yet. You hope that the kids aren’t affected or worried about all this doom and gloom, you would think some of it is seeping in, inevitably. So when The Middle, who is partial to pondering and mulling over all things universal, said the other day ‘there’s alot of things not right about the world’ I didn’t like the sounds of it. ‘What’s not right about it?’ I hesitantly enquire. ‘Well, knee shouldn’t have a ‘k’ and phone should be spelt with an ‘f’! She’s dead right.

There were more important things than the state of the nation in our house this week; I refer, of course to Harry Potter and friends. Perhaps wingardium leviosa might work on the government...make them fly away. Their Nanna at home said she’d love to go and see it but Grandad wouldn’t like it. ‘Sure he’d only fall asleep and then be askin loads of questions in the middle of it’ they all reckon. The Small Man who is Mastermind on all things to do with the spectacled hero informs us that that it’s dark, and quite scary, the girls mightn’t be up to it. But the mná in our house are always up for a challenge. Tickets booked, ensconced in the cinema, munchies on the lap, all set. The Youngest gets up to go the toilet before it starts. She’s wearing a high viz vest over her jumper, forgotten to take it off. In actual fact she hasn’t taken it off all week having been given them in school by a local sponsor, for the dark evenings. Himself and I just took one look at her and took a fit of the giggles. All she needed was a rolled up newspaper and a flashlight. ‘Mum, you’re crying, what’s the story’,  ‘they’re the best kind of tears’ I said ‘tears of laughter’. Scathered she is. There were no more toilet breaks and that’s a sure sign they enjoyed it. But watch out for the dodgy Irish accent, you’ll know what I mean when you hear it, beggorah. Disappointing too, for a Welshman.