School days!

RoyalGirl wrote:

And Hurlingguru I will once you get off me first.

is this appropriate?

love.

SamiPremier08 wrote:

RoyalGirl wrote:

And Hurlingguru I will once you get off me first.

is this appropriate?

love.

Probably not babes.

Didn't think so.

Don't be calling me babes, babes, HG will be very jealous...

Ah don't be like that baby.

Now now

SamiPremier08 wrote:Now now

Sorry darling can't right now bit busy

RoyalGirl wrote:

SamiPremier08 wrote:Now now

Sorry darling can't right now bit busy

Sorry Sami your turn

RoyalGirl wrote:

SamiPremier08 wrote:Now now

Sorry darling can't right now bit busy

hilarious.

Note to Mods.

Are we sharing this Platform with BEBO ?

OMAR wrote:Note to Mods.

Are we sharing this Platform with BEBO ?

Sorry Omar, agree with you on that one.

Jayo. Just wondering was it St.Vincents,Glasnevin. Sounds like it. Also how many posters have passed the Primary Cert?

Real Kerry Fan wrote:Jayo. Just wondering was it St.Vincents,Glasnevin. Sounds like it. Also how many posters have passed the Primary Cert?

That's where daddy dearest went.

Real Kerry Fan wrote:Jayo. Just wondering was it St.Vincents,Glasnevin. Sounds like it. Also how many posters have passed the Primary Cert?

Passed the what now???

Real Kerry Fan wrote:Jayo. Just wondering was it St.Vincents,Glasnevin. Sounds like it. Also how many posters have passed the Primary Cert?

The primary cert...? Was that the exam you had to do when you were in 6th class years ago? But you still couldn't leave school until you were 14 even if you weren't going to secondary school? If not my Granda was telling me about something that they used to have like that back in the 30s when he went to primary school.

[img][/img]

The Primary Cert was a exam for 6th class primary pupils. Ceased in 1967. Proud holder of one.

Real Kerry Fan wrote:[img][/img]

The Primary Cert was a exam for 6th class primary pupils. Ceased in 1967. Proud holder of one.

Jaysus! That's nearly old enough to be featuring in history classes

Real Kerry Fan wrote:[img][/img]

The Primary Cert was a exam for 6th class primary pupils. Ceased in 1967. Proud holder of one.

Two posters here so with this auspicious academic award...

Boxtyeater wrote:

Real Kerry Fan wrote:[img][/img]

The Primary Cert was a exam for 6th class primary pupils. Ceased in 1967. Proud holder of one.

Two posters here so with this auspicious academic award...

Im sure Patrique has one as well - Even though he was schooled in the Occupied territories - It hasn't stopped him picking up a légion d'honneur, numerous sigerson and fitzgibbon honours, a few purple hearts and a Nobel prize,
A primary Cert would be a mere stocking filler

OMAR wrote:[A primary Cert would be a mere stocking filler

But it's possibly/probably only an Honorary one.....much like a literary award for Bertie.

This was written about 40 years ago by renowned scribe John D Sheridan - when journalists could write. Boxty would be familiar with him I'd imagine. Tis a good read.


"If this was his first day at school, mam, I know how you feel.
He was getting to be a bit of a nuisance in the house this last while ... catching his finger in the wringer, turning on the gas jets, chasing the cat, running blindly across the road; and after every fresh bit of devilment you told yourself, as a promise, and him, as a threat, that you would pack him off to school after the holidays.
And you did. You dressed him in his new jersey and pants, and you spent most of the morning grooming him. You almost washed his ears away, and you put a shine on his cheeks. You wet his curls and combed them into glory. You hugged him because he looked so lovely and you cursed all the schools because he looked so young.
But you brought him, nevertheless, and changed your child into a unit of attendance. You told them his name and his age. You wanted to tell them a lot of other things .... that he is only an infant really, that some of his discarded wrappings are still in use as dusters, that he responds to praise and affection, that you can get him to do anything you want if you take him the right way. But you didn't tell them any of these things. You were very brave, and very reticent, and utterably miserable.
If you were a foolish woman you would have offered to let your house go to pot and to stay with him all day as an unpaid, untrained supernumerary, a highly privileged assistant: but you are a sensible woman, so you turned your heel and walked away. Not too sensible, however, for you took one look back as you walked up the corridor, and you saw that he was looking back, too, with a little lost look, as he went into the classroom to join his regiment.
Something happened to your heart then. You told the woman next door, over the railings, that you didn't know whether you were laughing or crying. But you knew well enough. And she knew. You were crying, and you had good reason: for the thing that happened to your heart when you left them will never be put wholly right.
You went in after that and made yourself a nice cup of tea, and when that failed you tried a wild orgy of housework. But it was no good. It was a long, long morning, and the house was empty without him. You missed the shouts of him and the frightening silence that made you drop everything and ask yourself 'I wonder what mischief he is up to now'.
You remembered the days when, after a bump and a scream, he would come to you for comforting, and with alternate scolding and cuddling you would ease his hurt and your own.
You had a baby in the cradle and a dinner on the range, but they didn't seem to take up so much of your time as usual. A weaker woman might have stood at the window at midday to watch for his coming, but you contented yourself with settling the front room curtains five or six times, and it was quite by accident that you saw him turn the corner.
You wanted to rush down the road to meet him, so you went into the kitchen and stirred all the pots .... just to show your self-control. But you didn't deceive even yourself, for your hand was shaking, and it wasn't the steam that made you dry your eyes.
There wasn't the slightest hurry on him as he walked up the path ... the little rascal ... and when he came in he fought free of your caresses. You wanted to know how he had got on at school, and what the mistress had said to him. You wanted to know if she had noticed his nice new jersey and near-gold of his hair. You wanted to know if she had given thanks publicly for the bonniest new scholar that ever sat in a desk. All he wanted was his dinner.
He might have been years at school for all the excitement he showed, and the little he had to tell had to be dragged out of him. The mistress had drawn a cat on the board, and the master had a green bicycle. You asked him again and again what the mistress had said to him, and at last, with his mouth full of bread pudding, he remembered. What she had said was: "Sit down there in the last desk beside Johnny Sullivan'.
Before he had finished his second helping of pudding there was a rattle at the letter-box, and he rushed out at once to join his comrades-in-arms. You dragged him back to rub his face and hands, and you terraced his curls with a web comb, but all the time he was fighting to be gone, and when he walked out the gate with the others he didn't as much as look back. You knew then that he was reared and done for, and when you went back into the kitchen again the baby in the chair was no comfort to you.
So you made yourself a nice cup of tea and told yourself not to be silly. After all, it was only for a few short hours. When he came back again in the evening he would be your very own, and you would have him all to yourself. It was then that you cried in real earnest ... for you knew in your heart and soul that you would never have him again. Not in the same old way. He was reared and done for.
You thought when you got him first that you would have him forever, but all you had was a loan of him. He will still come to you in his troubles, for he is tethered to your heart, but he will come less frequently as the tether lengthens, until some day it breaks and there is nothing left but the stake.
You will still have him morning and evening, and on Sundays and holidays, but though he will return as surely as a homing pigeon, you will know that he is merely home on leave. From now on the world will be his barrack-square, and there is nothing you can do about it.
I know how you feel."

Jayo Cluxton wrote:This was written about 40 years ago by renowned scribe John D Sheridan - when journalists could write. Boxty would be familiar with him I'd imagine. Tis a good read.


"If this was his first day at school, mam, I know how you feel.
He was getting to be a bit of a nuisance in the house this last while ... catching his finger in the wringer, turning on the gas jets, chasing the cat, running blindly across the road; and after every fresh bit of devilment you told yourself, as a promise, and him, as a threat, that you would pack him off to school after the holidays.
And you did. You dressed him in his new jersey and pants, and you spent most of the morning grooming him. You almost washed his ears away, and you put a shine on his cheeks. You wet his curls and combed them into glory. You hugged him because he looked so lovely and you cursed all the schools because he looked so young.
But you brought him, nevertheless, and changed your child into a unit of attendance. You told them his name and his age. You wanted to tell them a lot of other things .... that he is only an infant really, that some of his discarded wrappings are still in use as dusters, that he responds to praise and affection, that you can get him to do anything you want if you take him the right way. But you didn't tell them any of these things. You were very brave, and very reticent, and utterably miserable.
If you were a foolish woman you would have offered to let your house go to pot and to stay with him all day as an unpaid, untrained supernumerary, a highly privileged assistant: but you are a sensible woman, so you turned your heel and walked away. Not too sensible, however, for you took one look back as you walked up the corridor, and you saw that he was looking back, too, with a little lost look, as he went into the classroom to join his regiment.
Something happened to your heart then. You told the woman next door, over the railings, that you didn't know whether you were laughing or crying. But you knew well enough. And she knew. You were crying, and you had good reason: for the thing that happened to your heart when you left them will never be put wholly right.
You went in after that and made yourself a nice cup of tea, and when that failed you tried a wild orgy of housework. But it was no good. It was a long, long morning, and the house was empty without him. You missed the shouts of him and the frightening silence that made you drop everything and ask yourself 'I wonder what mischief he is up to now'.
You remembered the days when, after a bump and a scream, he would come to you for comforting, and with alternate scolding and cuddling you would ease his hurt and your own.
You had a baby in the cradle and a dinner on the range, but they didn't seem to take up so much of your time as usual. A weaker woman might have stood at the window at midday to watch for his coming, but you contented yourself with settling the front room curtains five or six times, and it was quite by accident that you saw him turn the corner.
You wanted to rush down the road to meet him, so you went into the kitchen and stirred all the pots .... just to show your self-control. But you didn't deceive even yourself, for your hand was shaking, and it wasn't the steam that made you dry your eyes.
There wasn't the slightest hurry on him as he walked up the path ... the little rascal ... and when he came in he fought free of your caresses. You wanted to know how he had got on at school, and what the mistress had said to him. You wanted to know if she had noticed his nice new jersey and near-gold of his hair. You wanted to know if she had given thanks publicly for the bonniest new scholar that ever sat in a desk. All he wanted was his dinner.
He might have been years at school for all the excitement he showed, and the little he had to tell had to be dragged out of him. The mistress had drawn a cat on the board, and the master had a green bicycle. You asked him again and again what the mistress had said to him, and at last, with his mouth full of bread pudding, he remembered. What she had said was: "Sit down there in the last desk beside Johnny Sullivan'.
Before he had finished his second helping of pudding there was a rattle at the letter-box, and he rushed out at once to join his comrades-in-arms. You dragged him back to rub his face and hands, and you terraced his curls with a web comb, but all the time he was fighting to be gone, and when he walked out the gate with the others he didn't as much as look back. You knew then that he was reared and done for, and when you went back into the kitchen again the baby in the chair was no comfort to you.
So you made yourself a nice cup of tea and told yourself not to be silly. After all, it was only for a few short hours. When he came back again in the evening he would be your very own, and you would have him all to yourself. It was then that you cried in real earnest ... for you knew in your heart and soul that you would never have him again. Not in the same old way. He was reared and done for.
You thought when you got him first that you would have him forever, but all you had was a loan of him. He will still come to you in his troubles, for he is tethered to your heart, but he will come less frequently as the tether lengthens, until some day it breaks and there is nothing left but the stake.
You will still have him morning and evening, and on Sundays and holidays, but though he will return as surely as a homing pigeon, you will know that he is merely home on leave. From now on the world will be his barrack-square, and there is nothing you can do about it.
I know how you feel."

Good one from the legendary John D....Sayings and maxims from another era. I'd imagine that now however, the "cup of tea and housework" may be superseded by "glass of chardonnay and a feed of Dr.Phil"..Nostalgia....

Great writing and a great mother's perspective ........ from a man!

I have only one purple heart, from Nam..........

patrique wrote:I have only one purple heart, from Nam..........

And I bet you loved the smell of napalm in the morning too ....

ps Should it not be Patrique MBE (mid-sized bodhrán enthusiast!)