A week off to work on my hip but not on my computer
Last Sunday, I left my wife, Gwen, in Dublin to monitor the abortion debate, put my computer in storage and conscripted my daughter, Constance, to drive me from Dublin to Baltimore by way of Lough Hyne for a full week's rest, during which I hoped to bring my new hip up to the hucklebuck standard of the old one.
The big plus in having a daughter who is totally like you in temperament is that you know which buttons to push to get her to drive you on what Constance correctly dubbed "a guilt trip". Like me, she is driven by the demon of duty, so she could not refuse a request to act as chauffeur from what Dickens calls the Aged P.
Admittedly, the downsides of this affinity are considerable. Chief among them is the chance that the drive gave Constance to recall my shortcomings when I was a Younger P. Long before we had reached the Curragh, she had covered a lot of ground. Like many in the media, but for different reasons, she is consumed by a passion for commenting on my long years as a Workers' Party activist.