First thought that hits me on waking: what on earth have we come back to? The friendly sleepy city we left 10 years ago full of drunken poets and Catholic landladies has been replaced by business parks, sushi bars, and a surfeit of luxury hotels.
Second thought (on hearing the rumble of cars on the dual carriageway outside): today is the day I will get to grips with the Dublin traffic. I will not be shoved into the wrong lane. I will not be bullied through on amber. I will not allow young men to cut in on me at roundabouts. I will memorise the route before I get into the car so that I won't have to map read and drive at the same time and so run into the car in front. Again. Very polite and understanding woman, considering I'd just dented her bumper.
Drive the smaller son the half-hour's journey to his school without getting lost once. So pleased with myself that I brave a shortcut on the way home. Get stuck in a traffic jam going in the wrong direction. Why does this always happen to me?
Grafton Street
Wander down Grafton Street pausing every so often to try on clothes, but mainly to ogle passing youth. When I last lived in Ireland almost everyone was smaller than me.
Now Grafton Street is populated by great tall 20-somethings. What on earth have they been putting in the water? I feel as if I'm surrounded by Scandinavians. They're stylish too; I need a brand new wardrobe. No, on second thoughts, ditch the clothes, I need a brand new body.
Retire sulking to Bewleys and their blessedly unchanged sticky buns (though I spy some suspiciously avant garde-looking chicken tikka wraps lurking on the counter). Feel a regular hick. Coming from Hull, a city bombed out during the second World War and largely neglected since, there are things in the Dublin shops I have never seen before and wouldn't know what to do with or, as one friend suggested, where to put them. I slink back humbled to our home, where the most sophisticated thing in our kitchen is a bottle opener. Perhaps the Irish would like to colonise England? It's badly in need of a dose of glamour, particularly around Hull.
Collect the younger sprog from school. I would say "at the end of the school day", but 2.30 doesn't count as the end of any day in my book. Added to which the summer holidays are looming, a month and a half longer than in England. How do working parents in Ireland manage? Do they all have grannies living nearby or what? And how can I go about hiring one? Realise how much I've been treating school as cheap childcare. Have omitted to mention how delighted I am, of course, to have the little dears at home so much. Make a note to investigate the au pair situation.
School curriculum
Depressing conversation at the school gate with a Canadian parent who is removing his children from Ireland on account of "the feeble primary curriculum". Worry about this all the way home. Tentatively inquire of the sprog whether he's done any science since arriving in Ireland. He says no. I say Oh dear. He says not at all, he hates science. I say that's beside the point. Feel him glowering at my back. Teachers 1, Mummy nil.
Despite good resolutions to mop his fevered brow, pour a gin and tonic, fetch his slippers and generally behave like a surrendered wife, I spill all these worries out to my man of the moment the minute he gets in the front door (before he's taken his coat off in fact). He says not to worry, Leaving Cert more highly regarded than A levels and is full of science. Man of the moment should know about these things, being an academic.
The sprog is certainly steaming ahead in Irish. He rattles a few sentences off to me as I prepare tea. Lord knows what he's saying. Probably swearing at me. He has already learned to call cupboards "presses" and his current accent veers weirdly between Yorkshire and north Dublin. Bless him.
Invited out to drinks do. Dislike looking like an academic spouse so put on my shortest skirt and, unusually for me, high heels. The thought strikes me: should a woman of my age be dressing like this? Ask man of the moment who casts his eye over me in a vague sort of way, says I look fine and if we don't get a move on we'll be late. Suspect he wouldn't notice if I went out wearing a dishcloth round my waist. We have no full-length mirror so I think sod it, grab my bag and go.
Gender divide
High heels definitely a mistake. This is the older generation of Irish and I tower, or rather teeter, over them. Feel silly and trivial and wish I'd stayed at home. Typical Irish gender divide. The women are talking traffic jams about which I've heard enough to last a lifetime. I escape into the men's half of the room. They are discussing 1922. Collins versus Dev. No change there then. Feel a sudden rush of post-colonial guilt. Whatever side they are on, I'm on the wrong one. Beat a hasty retreat.
Rejoin my man (it seems safer). People inquire politely about our unfinished house. I say it will be finished by the end of July. They roar with laughter at my naivety. "Never mind, you'll be in by Christmas", they chortle gaily. I'm not so naive as they think. I have neglected to tell them that the original deadline was last November. They say Tuscany is nice at this time of year. Wonder what school hours are like in Italy? I mention this thought casually in the car on the way home. Man of the moment bridles up and says he's not moving. Period.
Looks like we're going to be here then.