Well that’s that. After last weekend, Jennifer isn’t speaking to me. Not that I notice it that much as she wouldn’t be the best at keeping in touch. The difference now is that she told me she wasn’t speaking to me.

“Not until u accept declan 4 who he is,” she said in the text.

“Get on with your own life mam. Don’t mind her,” says Deirdre, although she’d be looking for babysitting in the same breath. But I won’t be getting into a row with her now.

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Between Kevin being guarded from me by his wife Stephanie (who has FIERCE notions about herself) and my youngest son Patrick who’s, well, I don’t know what the story is with Patrick these days but he’s definitely wearing eye-liner ... I don’t know who I’ve reared any more. So I’ll stay close to Deirdre for the time being.

Staying close to Deirdre is how I ended up being dragged into the Tidy Towns thing last year. That and opening my big mouth.

They had called a big meeting at the parish hall. Deirdre had asked me along for moral support.

“They’re the most frustrating crowd Mammy,” says she. “They’ll meet for four hours, NO agenda, no action, nothing. Only people giving out about the broadband, the water and the guards and what are they going to do about latchikos stealing power-tools out of vans. No focus at all.”

Sure enough, at this meeting, we were there an hour before they even started the thing. And it went downhill from there. Now, I’m not yer Man, the Apprentice fella that’s back selling the cars now, but even I could see it was going nowhere.

It was the same with the roof for the church. It was John Jeffreyes who grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, and he’s Church of Ireland. But them lads were always better for the organisation anyway – they wouldn’t be as shy about coming forward.

“That’s the Protestants for you,” says himself at the time, “taking responsibility in this life rather than leaving it up to the next.”

“That would be an ecumenical matter,” says I quick as a flash. I’d be humorous like that too if I have a good run at it.

At the Tidy Towns thing, I was too quick. Two hours in and nothing decided. I couldn’t help myself.

“So what are our actions from the meeting?” I said. There was silence. You’d think I was speaking Swahili with the looks I was getting.

Well don’t you know the way, as soon as you put yourself out there, you’re landed in it. Before I knew it, they were voting me secretary of the Kilsudgeon Tidy Towns and I’ve regretted it ever since. You would think that doing your bit for the locality would be a good thing but it’s as stressful. I’d have been better off between the Koreas or somewhere.

We started off flying with a cleanup. Everyone loves a cleanup. We planted a few flowerbeds. I got on to Pat Gibley the councillor and I said: “Pat if you ever want another vote in this area again, get us a few bob for a light or two.” And fair play to him he came up trumps. But all the lights did was make it easier to see Don Deasy’s oul ramshackles.

And Don Deasy’s “Bric-a-Brac Yard” as he calls it – or “pile of shite” as everyone else calls it – was the main reason we got a lot fewer points than Drumfeakle. That’s all people around here care about. If there was a nuclear bomb aimed at us, they’d be concerned that there should be one for Drumfeakle as well.

And tonight’s there’s another meeting about what we’re going to do next. What’s more, Don Deasy himself will be there.

“I’ll be coming out fighting Anne,” he says to me last week.

Rearing a family was never this hard.

To be continued.