As the weeks roll into each other there are tears and laughter, joy and sorrow, trasna an uisce. This weekend was tinged with sadness. We had a loss, a removal. No flowers please. A sad day for me, laced with nostalgia. Yes... the time had come to remove the ‘G’ reg from my jammer.
I had moral support from Nana and Grandad who were over to visit. The house was filled with anticipation and excitement to see them. So Grandad Jeep, drill in hand, carried out the dirty deed. I wanted to beat my chest and don a black mantilla for the rest of the day. Had I a mantelpiece it might take centre stage, akin to an urn. This was the only car I’ve had with G plates and funnily enough it meant a lot, like a badge. I will truly be coming back as a visitor with my new yellow reg. “That’s the start of it now,” were the responses from the west. With the plethora of hoops one has to jump through to register an import over here, emotions of sadness were coupled with a sense of achievement. There are forms for everything in duplicate, triplicate, quadruplicate. There were C of Cs, MOTs, and off to the man behind the hatch at the DVLA. I think they should change the agency name to the DDTDWAFC (Don’t Darken This Door With A Foreign Car ). The Department for Stupid Questions came up with these on a Monday morning, after a feed of porter I would think, “Why did you live in Ireland?” Well it just so happens I was born there and I’m Irish, that’s why. Another, “How long will you be living in the UK?” Well, you tell me sunshine, if you have a crystal ball there on your desk give us a gander will ya? But nonetheless, another bureaucratic box ticked.
Thus the Galway plates take pride of place in The Small Man’s bedroom. The times they are a changin’. The long and whining road of adolescence approaches, far too quickly. Spots, rancid feet, and the wearing of an attitude, are coming down the tracks. He had his first disco recently. Trinny and Tranny weren’t needed to decide on his attire for the night, the only criteria I gave him was no soccer jersey or tracksuit bottoms. So, all sharp in shirt and jeans he looked tall and handsome with the hair all Justin Bieberish waxed within an inch of itself. If his Grandad saw him there’d be talk of “cutting gibbles hangin’ down in your eyes”. Like the ballroom of romance all the boys were on one side, all the girls on the other. We arrived to collect him early and had a peek at them dancing. I wanted to get stuck in but that wouldn’t have been good for his street cred. Well able to throw shapes, he thankfully hasn’t inherited his father’s non-dancing gene. Red faces and the sweat pourin’ off them, the boys and girls spill out. “I’m going clubbin’ when I’m older,” he said. The thoughts of it put the fear of God in me. “Did they play Bruce?” “No Mum.” “Any U2?” “Ah, no Mum, they’re pants,” and the friend said, “They only played Pendulum once.” Who are they when they’re at home? I am now officially old. The Small Man goes into spasms if he hears Christy Moore or Radiohead. Shockin’. I’ll learn him yet. “So, did you say thanks to the birthday girl for a fun night?” I enquire. “God no, that’d mean I had to talk to her,” was the response. The times they will change I fear, but not for a good while, I hope.
Anne Joyce McCarthy is chief bottle-washer, wife of one, mother of three (eleven year old boy, eight-year-old twin girls ), student, newbie blogger and occasional jogger. Originally from Corrib Park, Galway, she moved last month from Galway to Oxfordshire with her family.
