Posted on Saturday, July 25, 2009
I love school holidays, because it allows me to be anti-social. I can stay up as late as I like playing with my hero alter-ego on Fable II, and don’t have to face parental small-talk the next morning. I can waste hours doing jigsaws with Puppychild or glueing cut-out felt or making home-made play-dough and not have to talk to another soul. This to me is heaven, but ultimately a bad thing. Sometimes it’s good to get out there and do something, if only for the feeling that something has been done.
But what can one do when one is smashed and relying on the contents of the penny-jar?
Thankfully, if there’s anything cheap in Dublin City, it’s culture. Puppychild and I embarked on a Dart adventure today into Merrion Square to see the National Art Gallery… something I remember my Grandmother doing with me when I was a kid, something that really stuck in my mind. There are discoveries to be made, such as the fact that it’s sometimes okay to colour outside the line, that a cluster of dots often only make sense when you stand a few steps away from them, and that the most important colour for the conveyance of mood is white, or the absence thereof. Even the experience of people-watching in that gallery can be an eye-opener in itself.
Puppychild will not, however, remember any of this.
The highlight of her trip (apart from riding on the train), was the dinkle factor.
Apart from all the naked cherubs hanging around the place, there was the very large Da Vinci-esque statue of a bloke in the centre of the second floor.
“Look Mommy!!! He’s a boy! He has a dinkle!”
“Yes pickle-pants. Yes he does.”
“Touch the dinkle Mommy!” (in her typically attention grabbing loud voice)
Several people stopped viewing artwork and turned to watch. I did not touch the dinkle. I turned instead to search for Caravaggio.
“Mommy!!! Come back and lift me up so I can touch the dinkle!”
She’s at that age. Secret curious rendezvous’ in school toilets and closed hallways, in remote fields and behind closed kitchen doors. Small boys and girls dropping their drawers for mutual investigations. I did it. I remember the dinkle factor well. I bet you did it too.
There’s nothing I can do about it other than dish out cringe worthy and most definitely unwanted advice with a side-helping of prophylactic. I’d forgotten that it started so young though. The dinkle factor. We’re all slaves.