Jenny tells me that Maeve is worried at the moment because a boy in her class likes her. I explain to her that I spent my schooldays probably making life a misery for the girls that I fancied, but that I never meant anything by it. It’s what young boys do. I assure her that it’s all harmless, that I am much more afraid of social media and all its dangerous implications than I am of normal social interaction between boys and girls. I also make it clear to Jenny that she ought to be acting primarily as a mother to Maeve and less of a friend. Jenny explains that she treats Maeve as a friend so she can get information out of her. I admit that I am baffled. I move on to telling her how well Mikey is doing in goals and that it would be a nice gesture if she were to come and watch him play in a match some day. Jenny talks about her art, how she cannot sacrifice art time for football. She gets herself so worked up about it that the conversation about Mikey is lost.

We get off the DART at Blackrock station and my mood is upbeat. The evening has got that glorious feeling, the afternoon sun having done its job. It puts a lightness into everyone’s steps. Jenny appears nimble, I feel veritably light-footed. Responsibilities are jettisoned. It is right that we are out, here together, the two of us. Every couple needs time away from their children, it is only natural.

We make our way on to the main street. I suggest a pint before the party. It is probably a bad thing to be inside on such a wonderful evening and I am deeply torn, and I conclude that despite the pleasant evening and the immediacy of the sea that engulfs your senses as soon as you step out of the carriage at Blackrock, I rather fancy a drink. We head into Jack O’Rourke’s, an old favourite haunt of mine, and immediately the prospect of the evening ahead feels exciting. It is seldom that we find ourselves alone like this, a night out, the prospect of a decent party, sex perhaps when we return later. I push Jenny into getting a pint of Guinness because, I figure, it’s better value than those little bottles of wines she’s partial to. There’s not a whole lot to offer her in the way of decent wine by the glass in any case in O’Rourke’s. It’s not that kind of place, I assure her. Despite the heat Jenny drinks the Guinness. I don’t enjoy mine much as the creamy top is turning a dirty slush colour as I am drinking it and I feel strangely bereft.