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GIVE ME A BREAK:ON THE DART the other day I heard a man and a woman conversing in Irish - gossiping, flirting a little, sharing news, writes  Kate Holmquist 

Their conversation was lilting, sparkling language at its best. In my office, those who speak the language sometimes take phone calls in Irish or share a few words across desks. To hear Irish spoken naturally and with pleasure is a delight. But to hear it forced and stilted, to struggle over it as the children do homework they barely understand, while I, the parent who is supposed to help them, understand even less, is the opposite of pleasure. Spoken by choice, the language blossoms; learned by force, it shrivels and is hard to crack. While I appreciate the language, I abhor the educational apartheid that goes along with it.