Fionnuala was in Brighton for a work conference (she’s a senior social worker) and I was happy holding the fort; it was the end of term and the school was winding down for the long summer, so there were no homeworks or PE bags or even uniforms to prepare.

There was euphoria in the air and any time it stopped raining, our back garden became Croke Park with football and camogie and shouting and cheering. Even Eric, our mutt, joined in, fetching sliotars in his slobbery mouth.

Looking through the kitchen window, I sipped a vitamin drink and mulled over what takeaway we would purchase that evening.

“Have you the cards for the teachers sorted?” Fionnuala messaged me.

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“Yes.”

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