Róisín Ingle
. . . . on a lark in the park
THERE IS A playground in the Phoenix Park not far from Áras an Uachtaráin that in my house is known as the “President’s Playground”. We go there a lot because it has one of the finest examples of the lying down swing you are going to find on the north side of Dublin. I love those swings. You can lie down and tune out when all that frenetic playground parenting gets too much which, if I’m honest, is 99.9 per cent of the time.
When we drive away from the President’s Playground I always point to the gates of the Áras and ask, “Who lives there?”
And my daughters always chirrup: “Michael D Higgins” – just like I’ve trained them to.
People who claim they’ve never trained their children to parrot stuff for their own amusement are either lying or morally superior to most parents I’ve met. I know somebody whose toddler used to stand up at parties and say, “I don’t know what a tracker mortgage is.” It never got old.
Anyway, last week I was up in the Áras myself for work watching the President and his wife, Sabina, do a wonderful job of welcoming members of the European Gay Police Association to their home. It’s always a pleasure to be in that house, partly because of the stunning architecture and partly because of the quality of canapes on offer. It goes without saying they are seriously fancy and exquisitely made, but the chefs there also have a way with, say, the humble cocktail sausage that I’ve never been able to replicate at home.
In addition to snaffling a few sausages on sticks while on the premises I also managed to wangle myself an invite to the President’s first garden party, which was being organised a few days later along the theme of “family”.
I rushed home to tell the girls. “Guess who has invited us to their house on Sunday?” I gushed. “Noddy?” one of them said hopefully.
I ignored that and just blurted it out: “Michael D Higgins!” I triumphed.“He’s having a party!”
In fairness, they don’t know Michael D from Big Ears but they couldn’t have been happier if they’d been invited to attend Cinderella’s glass slipper fitting.
The two of them jumped on the bed and, being their Mother’s daughters, started to speculate about the kind of vittels Michael D might provide. “Cup cakes!” “Chocolates!” “Ice-cream!” He’ll definitely have ice-cream, I said, adding, unnecessarily I see that now, “from the President’s ice-cream van.”
On the morning of the big day we had arranged to meet some friends at Dublin Zoo. The girls were up from 5am so I had anticipated some tiredness-related tantrums and, sure enough, after around an hour both of them went into meltdown mode.
