Perched some 250 feet above the sea, the Atlantic on three sides of us, we really should be a lighthouse, not a school. But today, in a late spring mini-heat-wave, our playground is a joy to behold. Why, it's even nice to be out there amid the bedlam, now that they can go on the grass.

In Cullinane's field next door, there's a big black bull and a few little calves. I secretly admire the bull's detachment from his children - he grazes, they gambol, but at no stage do they approach or hassle him. Perfect discipline.

The idyll is shattered by the dreaded double-barrelled trochee, "Teacher, teacher!" My informant is very exercised indeed . . . "Leo is eating the new trees!" Oh, is he now! Well, we'll just have to see about this.

Clutching my mug of freshly-infused ginseng and raspberry tea, (yard-duty warrants a stiff drink), I sidle over to investigate Leo's vegetarian fad. It transpires that he is claiming duress, that Sean was making him eat the doubtless tasty new leaves. Sean, in turn, avers that Cathal ordered him to request Leo to graze, so Cathal is the real villain. You still with me? You want a job.

I speak with Cathal who doesn't really see where I fit into this menage. In fact, he is positively shirty. He's probably having a bad day and, as if to emphasise this, turns away and calls me an oul something (beginning with eff and rhyming, I think, with trucker).

I'm not having this!

"Cathal, that's not a very nice name to call anybody. The next time I see your mother, I'm going to tell her just what you said."

By now, the lachrymal glands have kicked in, his, not mine. And, somewhere within the siren wail, is a novel and recondite defence argument.

"But . . . but everyone calls you that!"

Sir, now I know. The sun may be beating down but verily there's a winter in my heart. I think of Joyce's panoply of treachery . . . horn of bull, hoof of horse, smile of Saxon. Years ago, I added "craith laimhe an Chigire" and now, oh yes, playground duty.