A stay in Irish college exposes a gulf in understanding

SURVIVING THE SUMMER: As I write, we are at the "put out every single thing you own, in neat piles" point. Yes, the stay in Irish college and German college looms, and while we might still be a day or two away from the dreaded packing, we are definitely at the "gather what you've got and get it washed" stage, writes Caroline Murphy

In theory, these places are absolutely great. Close your mind to the cost, and stretching ahead of you are three whole weeks of peace and quiet. Children missing, but minded. Bliss!

And this year, hang the cost, we are not even attempting to help pay for it all by stuffing the house full of foreign students. So there will be space to move . . . and think . . . and be. I can't wait.

But still these expeditions take one heck of a lot of getting ready for. And the thing that stings most in this house is being faced with the bald truth of the accusation that is hurled at us throughout the year from all quarters - but especially from the female ones - "I have no clothes".

Is there any worse job in the whole world than trying to assemble a wardrobe for each one of four very different children to last them three whole weeks? Not forgetting each wardrobe must suit four different establishments, each with its own set of rules and suggestions.

Each brochure or information pack for each college has you trying to read between the lines. Do they really mean it when they say put labels on everything? They can definitely whistle for the flashy sewn-on ones, but just in case they half mean it, you get out the biro the night before and start scribbling initials all over everything.

When they say bring a net bag for laundry, is that because it will be washed in the bag? Should you try to explain to your 14-year-old son that it mightn't be a great idea to put his only half-decent white T-shirt in with the navy and black socks and jeans? Will he even hear, never mind listen? And anyway, where on earth will you get a net bag?

And what about the ones that say the washing will be sent out to the laundry? How on earth will that work? And what will they charge?

As it all swirls around in your head, the same old solution emanates from those travelling: "None of this would be a problem if we had enough clothes to last us three weeks. Why don't we just go shopping?" This, however, is a solution that is not dignified with a reply above a low-level snarl.

Of course getting them packed doesn't even equate to approaching the starting blocks. You still have to get them down there. This year, two are going to places with bus transport laid on, but two others have to be delivered - one all the way to the north west.

Can't we share a lift? Of course not. We were so lucky to get the place at all, and she is not going to be with anyone she knows. So there's nothing for it but to drive her down - and then go back three weeks later to drive her home. When I saw the bit in the brochure that said visiting during the course was strongly discouraged, I cheered and circled it in heavy red biro.

It really is important to keep track of the different brochures. Midnight before travelling is not the time to lose the list that sets out the college's policy on bedding and the number of towels required by each student.

One consolation is that at least the literature can make fun reading for parents intent on getting a little of their own back. First of all you sympathise: "Bit rough of them to make you leave the mobile at home. I hope you won't be too lost without it".

Then you get considerate: "Will I hang on to it in my bedroom for safety? Would you like to give me the password in case any messages come in? I could write to you and tell you what they were". If communication of any description survives this offer, you helpfully go to the post office and buy some stamps. Then, exhibiting generosity beyond all the boundaries required, you even stamp and address the envelopes to yourself - yourself! As you hand them over with (another) sweet smile, you ignore the snarl that somehow sounds awfully like the one you yourself emitted earlier.

"It will be fun," you tell them, soothingly. "Letter-writing is an art that doesn't deserve to have been sacrificed at the altar of text and e-mail."

But of course, in this modern game of one-upmanship, there can only ever be one winner - and it's never you.

Last year, one of ours delivered the ultimate put-down. Five days in to their stay in the Gaeltacht, there arrived a beautifully written, six-page letter, full of news - as Gaeilge! As she knew only too well, to my shame, I could barely understand a word of it.

Caroline Murphy is a broadcaster and mother of six