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Diary of a demented mum: Wolverine looks forward to living in fantasy land

College? The Wolverine can't wait. Freedom from home, freedom from chores, most of all, freedom from your incessant nagging.

She doesn't actually vocalise that last bit, but it's what she means.

She'll have a lovely apartment - all of her own! Nobody to tell her to turn off the telly and go to bed.

Nobody to stop her texting at dinner time. No pesky little siblings telling tales and robbing her stuff.

But won't she be staying with granny, you ask innocently.

Granny? Who said she'd be staying with granny? she shrieks.

Well, you explain, if CAO sends her to City A, B or C, there are relatives in all those places who have already offered to have her.

The Wolverine is horrified.

She's not living with relatives. She wants independence.

And how, you inquire mildly, does she intend to finance that?

Well, like, obviously she'll get a part-time job and pay her rent that way.

Her best friend's sister's friend only has three hours of lectures a day so she works in a shop and earns a fortune. She goes to night clubs and everything.

You inquire whether, alongside such crucial considerations as penthouse apartments and social whirls, your daughter has given any thought to her choice of university course? Transition year, surely, is custom designed to allow the space and time for this?

Well, she admits, she was kinda waiting for her appointment with the TY career guidance teacher on that one; she's only 16 after all.

Recalling how you had actually started college when you were just a few months older than she is now, you tactfully suggest giving her future career some thought now rather than waiting around for a few hurried minutes with a busy teacher at some unspecified time.

Oh, she says, well, you know, she was thinking about being a teacher or an architect. Or, eh, a psychiatrist.

Really, you say, surprised. You tell her that to become a psychiatrist, she'll first have to study medicine, which has a very high points requirement, so she'd have to score top marks in the Leaving Certificate.

Medicine? God no. That'd take years. Maybe she'll be a psychologist. That sounds a bit easier. Or a social worker. She thinks she might like to help people, she says warmly.

Oh, that's nice, you say, wanting to help people. So now that she's on the subject maybe she'll unstack the dishwasher while the two of you chat?

Aw Ma, she's, eh, got this 1,500-word history project . . . Can't you get one of the others to do it?

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