That’s it now – the clocks are gone back. The days are well and truly scuppered. This time last week it was an hour later as my mother used to say. Although I haven’t much time to think about it. It’s been all go this week.

Brid Austin rings me in a tizzy looking for “wings”. Wings says I? I’ve no wings. I thought she was on about some sort of angel thing. Brid is always putting stuff up on the Facebook about angels, the cratur. I leave her be. She says she gets comfort from them.

But this isn’t about angels. She tells me her grand-niece wants to be a dragon for Halloween.

“A dragon? Like the ones off Dragon’s Den?”

For a minute I’m picturing young Caley sitting behind a desk asking tough question of some poor fella trying to get his invention working. “I’m out Paddy, you should have known you’d need an extension lead or better batteries." But it’s a different kind of dragon, as Brid explains.

“No, from the film. How to train your dragon.”

“How to train your dragon?”

“Yeah ... well How to train your dragon 2 actually. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Con says he might have a tube of an old tractor tyre lying around that we can make into the main bit but we’ve no wings. You don’t have any lying around.”

“Would butterfly wings do you?”

We’ve a pair lying around from some hen that Deirdre went on. ‘Sexy Angels’ was the theme but she couldn’t find Angel wings at the time. I don’t tell Brid this of course. I don’t think she’d have much truck with sexy angels.

“I’m not sure. Caley was very specific. You know what she’s like.”

I do know – Caley isn’t used to having things go a different way to her own way and butterfly wings for a dragon in training might get her upset.

“You could cover them in the same bit of tyre-tube.”

“You’re a genius. I’ll try that”.

Honestly, Halloween costumes are gone fierce advanced these days. I don't know what happened to just using a bin-liner and a bit of marker. Now all the Halloween costumes have to be so 'realistic' and up to date. I think it’s all this stuff on the Internet. Deirdre shows me this thing one day. ‘These Parents Are Winning At Life.’ You should see the EFFORT they go to. I’d say they’ve plenty of money to be winning.

Anyway the simplest costumes are best. Or so I thought until this afternoon when little Adam comes up to me with a little sign in his hand.

“Nana will you help me with my costume?”

“Of course peitin. Where’s your costume?”

He’s just standing there in his little jeans and a grey jumper. There’s some sort of gel in his hair. I don’t know what he’s supposed to be.

“It’s nearly finished. I’m doing the sign. How to you write ‘Coolaboola’.”

"What’s Coolaboola?”

“Fran says it.“

“Fran who.”

“Fran out of Love/Hate.”

Ohthelordsaveus. I might see if he’d prefer to be a dragon.

'Mammy' is an Irish mother of four, grandmother of a few. She lives near the small village of Kilsudgeon, a place that has been waiting for ages for a bypass. She is married to Himself, an easy-going sort of a fella who drives a zero-four Passat. Mammy herself has the Almera and come to think of it, it should be due for an NCT one of the days.

Follow @irishmammies on Twitter. The Christmas Book of Irish Mammies is out now.