IT'S A DAD'S LIFE: We'll have a laugh but I won't compare notes with anyone about the state of Newcastle FC
THERE WAS huge excitement. The cousins were coming. The cousins, the main selling point to the kids for our move out of the city. The cousins, eight and 10, perfect, pretty cheeky girls, the epitome of chic to my starry-eyed fawning pair.
What they would think of our manor wasn't just important, it would dictate if our home was acceptable.
"You really are faoin tuath," shouts the eight-year-old. It's true, we are.
"Your utility room is the same size as your old house," marvels her sister.
That's not true. I would never have slept on top of a washing machine. But we have the seal of approval; we do not have to move again.
All four erupt into small-girl frenzy. We point them in the direction of our specially appointed playroom and leave them at it to bounce off walls at their own speed.
Soon we notice silence. The playroom is empty. They have decamped to the attic of course. Why bother with the comforts of a light-filled, shag-piled room when you can explore a dusty, cobweb-strewn plyboard extravaganza? I check there are no small-girl-sized holes to fall through and walk away.
A sign goes up on the door to the attic: Caiptin's Club. Nock and come in. At least we're welcome, not banished from their lives just yet. Time comes for the cousins to leave but one is prevailed upon to stay the night. At some point they sleep, then wake to continue the whirlwind way too early.
On Sunday night the elder tells me she can't wait to go to school the next day. This is new. She is now in a gaelscoil and I had wondered would she cope with the language. She's done three days
"I can't understand a word they're saying," she says. "Even when there's a game, I don't know until it gets to me," she laughs. No bother. "When the bell rings everyone shouts, 'Chuala mé cloigí!'"
She wanders off singing to herself, "Chuala mé cloigí," over and over.
"Are you okay?" I call after her. "Yeah dad. Everything's ceart go leor."
The younger is stroking her beard over her new playgroup. She has made a friend and wants to know will she be visiting our new house and if she likes macaroni and cheese and will they go on holidays together.
She is also concerned that her best friend in Dublin might feel left out. She decides that her old bestie will be shy when she meets the new one, but then they will play together. And maybe they'll all go on holidays together.
Even the dog is smiling. And she's lucky to be in the house.
Opening curtains I realised something was stuck to my shoe. Behind me I saw half a fresh turd sitting on beige carpet. The other half was spread between my sole and four brown footprints. The dog was catapulted through the front door and I got on my hands and knees and started scrubbing.
Rag against the carpet was the only noise. I washed, rinsed and disinfected. I wanted to go out on the street and rail about dog filth to whoever would stop and lend an ear. But the closest people to listen are long dead in an overgrown, ancient graveyard across the road.
It's quiet. The views are spectacular but it's quiet. Later I'll go shopping and buy the elder another school shirt, maybe bring the kids to a playground or for a run on the beach.
We'll have a laugh but I won't compare notes with anyone about the state of Newcastle FC or whether Obama is a shoo in.
Last week we couldn't get the heating working. The landlord had a plumber on site for three days solid before he figured out a solution. We stood and scratched our heads together. What could it be, we wondered.
We all got colder and grubbier as the week wore on, the kids delighted they couldn't be bathed because the hot water runs off the heating system. The landlord began to panic and, in a display of generosity, put his credit card behind a hotel reception desk to allow us use a room if needed. On the morning of day four my new buddy, the plumber, bounded in. "I have a plan," he announced.
An hour later I was toasty under a hot shower. Afterwards, I strolled through the house savouring the warmth of underfloor technology on my bare feet. The plumber packed up and went off to his next job.
After he left, I noticed how quiet it was.
• abrophy@irish-times.ie