IT'S A DAD'S LIFE:Stuck in a book, or constantly checking texts - you might be missing out on life, writes ADAM BROPHY.
IN THE PHOENIX Park last week I ran past a guy walking his dog while reading a novel, all relaxed, out for a stroll, catching up on his Stephen King.
Kinda weird, I thought, in one of the most beautiful spots in the city to bury your nose in a book as you take a turn around the gardens.
The following Friday I'm savouring a pint outside Slatterys on Grand Canal Street and watching besuited workers buzzing by when I spot another fella walking and reading. Except he's no casual stroller; he's a busy guy.
He walks with a purpose to match his Italian suit, a serious individual without a second to waste. His personal time and motion study has dictated that to fit a frivolity such as literature into his day he must combine it with his perambulation home.
Part of me wants to say "fair play, he's making the most of every minute", but the other part wants to shake him and order him to read at home, on the couch, in the bed, on the pot. I want to ask him: What's wrong with just walking?
I fear being stuck on public transport without a book. It's a habit so engrained that I miss having to use public transport because I feel I've lost valuable reading time in my daily routine.
If I'm eating alone there has to be a paper to hand. Minutes before I spotted the Grand Canal Street walker/reader I had been lamenting not having something to read because I felt uncomfortable sitting there on my Sweeney while everyone around me seemed to be having the most boisterous, fun-filled evening of their far more exotic lives. Johnny No-Mates, insisting to people who wanted to take the redundant chairs from around my table that I was actually expecting company, because to sit and relax outside a bar on a weekend evening alone is beyond anyone's comprehension.
I am a sad little social wannabe. But at least I can walk a busy street without having to hide in a book.
Compelled by the walker/
reader, I took it upon myself to count the amount of people tinkering with mobile phones while walking by. About three out of every 10 were engaged in conversations or actively texting while en route to wherever their phenomenally glamorous lives were taking them.
Of course, I compiled this ad hoc survey while simultaneously texting friends and family in an attempt to alleviate the perceived sad looks I was getting for my lone stature. So very alone.
You see, I get guilty about using perceived "nothing" time (eating, travelling, etc) to catch up on my reading because I find myself applying the same rules to time with the kids. I drag them to the playground and then throw a strop when they nag the bejesus out of me as I sit and try to squeak a chapter out.
All this "Daddy, look what I can do! Daddy, lift me onto the slide. Daddy, I broke my arm!"
They won't give me a minute. If my old man saw the inside of a playground I reckon he'd crumble to dust like Óisín getting down off his horse - yet I could draw you a map of them around Dublin with pros and cons for each. Aren't I great? Would they not just leave me alone?
Then I bring them to Eddie Rockets for a treat and figure I'll get through the sports section while they scoff their nuggets and chips. Not at all. "Daddy, she poured 7-Up on my dinner. Look at me Daddy, I'm using ketchup for eye-liner!" It's a joke.
The clue is in the requests. I get caught trying to sneak out the door and attempt to put them off the scent by saying I'm going to the bank/dump/
dentist, anywhere that should be wholly unappealing to a child on a sunny day. "Can we come with you?" they'll ask.
They don't care where, they just want to come with me. I am a narky trout, I would not go anywhere with me, yet they demand my company and then demand my full attention.
There's no avoiding it, and it's only when I give up the pretence that I might get to stick my beak in a pot-boiler for a minute that I get to enjoy them again. They beat anything put down on a page.
In the same way, the Phoenix Park on a bright Sunday morning has more allure than a Barbara Cartland novel and people-watching in Ballsbridge at rush hour on a Friday evening shades Harry Potter every time.