You are commissioned by Mr. Del Trotter of Peckham Springs Ltd. to carry out a survey of the population’s like/dislike of mineral water. Mr. Trotter would like to discover people prefer his product, though he doesn’t say it outright.

So you head down to a predominantly Muslim area of London with your clipboard and approach people on the street asking “if you had the choice, would you prefer to drink a) mineral water or b) beer?”

The results: When asked, a staggering 95% of the population said they prefer to drink water! [The remaining 5% were recorded as "don't know" - they may have said "tea"].

It’s wrong isn’t it? Pure wrong. It’s cheating. You wouldn’t take on such a commission would you? You wouldn’t lie like that.

The Catholic Church did. The Council for Research and Development of the Irish Bishops’ Conference yesterday released the results of a survey on the “Factors Determining School Choice” [in Ireland, north and south]. A survey carried out by their own researcher.

You can read about it on the Irish Independent website or, if you have money to spare, you can read a different slant on the Irish Times website. If the Catholic Communications Office got its act together you could probably read the full text of the press release on their website too. But they haven’t published it (yet).

Here are some of the “findings”:

- 98% said they were aware when applying to enrol their child that the school choice was a Catholic choice.

Insinuation: 98% of parents selected a Catholic school.

What the parents were really saying: More than 3,000 of the 3,200 primary schools in the country are Catholic. Of course we were aware.

- 94% said that education was a shared responsibility between parents and the school.

Insinuation: 94% said that education was a shared responsibility between parents and the Church, as the school is Church run.

What the parents were really saying: Education is a shared responsibility between parents and the school.

- A clear majority believe that Holy Communion and Confirmation are best prepared for within the school.

Insinuation: Hey, look at us. Aren’t we great? Look at all we do for you? Look at the trust you place in us. Look at how much a part of your lives and the community we are.

What the parents were really saying: We couldn’t be bothered / don’t have time to do this ourselves. Shur we wouldn’t know the first thing about it, and anyway, we’re only going ahead with the Communion business to keep Granny and Grandad off our case.

- 60% believe that the school’s teachers should promote the religious life of the school.

Insinuation: 60% truly prefer a Catholic education for their children.

What the parents we really saying: As above - you fire ahead with this religion business and keep Granny and Grandad off our case.

- In the preamble (in the Irish Times) it said “three new State-run schools will soon open, but the question of faith formation in these schools has still to be resolved”.

Insinuation: Look at the results of our survey. Clearly you need to hand the management of these schools over to us. It’s what the parents want.

Del Trotter would love this researcher.

So the cat’s gone. Anonycat got put down. AIDS of all things. The dog missed him a bit at first. They were sometimes-friends - on the cat’s terms of course. Some nights when it was cold the cat would be kind enough to let the dog share the dog kennel. Other nights he’d evict the dog with one well placed swipe of a claw - especially wet nights. The dog isn’t the brightest and never realised the cat was a proper bastard. But I hated it. I hate cats.

Peace and tranquillity were once again restored to Sneezy Manor. Never again would I be tripped up by a fluffy white thing crossing my path at faster miles an hour. Why did it always do that when I had my arms full? Never again would I be woken at 2am by Anonycat having his way outside my window with some floozie he picked up on the street. Never again would there be scraping and yowling at the door at 3am - deed done, now looking for food and/or a cigarette.

Then what happened? A mickey-relation heard the cat was dead and took pity on me. Pity! Pity, I ask you. What feking pity? I didn’t want pity, I wanted party. They got me a replacement. 06D reg. FSH. Range of optional extras included. Low mileage. i.e. Less than 2 years old, used belong to some old dear in Dublin, all certs provided, box of toys, house cat. A fukin house cat! Bad enough having one around the yard but now I have one that lounges on the couch all day watching soaps. I suppose you’re going to suggest I put a cat-flap on the fridge in case it gets peckish during Dr. Phil, I asked. Don’t be silly, she said. Here’s his food and here’s his menu. It’s a two week rota so he doesn’t get bored. How can something that watches Oprah get any more bored?

Anonycat was pure white. This one is mostly white with brown patches. And one small black patch. Where? Right under the nose. You’ve dumped me with a Nazi cat, I yelled. Ah don’t be silly, the little moustache is cute.

I whipped the cat up and frantically turned it this way and that. What are you doing? You’ll hurt the poor kitty. I’m checking it doesn’t have a number tattooed somewhere. 666 or 667. If it’s not the Beast it’s the Neighbour of the Beast. See the way it’s piercing me with its eyes? See the way its paw is outstretched like that? That’s a salute I tell you. Is its name Adolf or Damien? Would you relax! Its name is Alex and he’s a little dote. So was Damien at that age. It’ll make the dog jump to his death from the balcony. Mark my words. You don’t have a balcony. A high wall then. You don’t have a wall either.

I less than two weeks this damn cat has caused more trouble than the last one did in three years.

The painter-in-law (he’s married to my cousin) arrived one morning last week. Where’s the cat, asked Lar. Oh, it’s here. Just hidden. Not hiding. Hidden. He is a master of camouflage. A stealth cat. One minute there won’t a be a sign of it anywhere, then you’ll notice it asleep on the seat next to you. This cat is SAS trained. I’m sure of it. Jayzez, you’re right, Primal. I thought I was losing the plot, said Lar. I came in for the tea yesterday morning and it wasn’t here. I dropped me bag, hit the button on the kettle, turned around and it was asleep on the mat. And all the meat was gone from me sandwiches. Yeah, it does that, Lar, I agreed. You’d want ears on the side of your head with it. This one has read too much TS Elliot. Too much what? Don’t worry about it, Lar.

But for once the cat really wasn’t there. We could hear it meowing somewhere, but couldn’t find it. Ah bollix, groaned Lar. The utility room. It’s fallen down behind that wall unit. Listen. And that’s where it was. How it got up there is a mystery. But then, one of it’s pastimes is performing a tightrope act on the tops of doors.

Lar got his step ladder and we dropped a sheet down the back so it could climb up. We waited and waited. Lar got a bigger ladder and I climbed up a shone a torch down. It wasn’t there. It must be underneath the units. But which one? We prised out the kickboards one by one. No cat. The one kickboard we hadn’t taken out was the one wedged in by a skirting board. It had to come off. And it brought an acre of plaster with it. The cat strolled out with a what-the-fek-kept-yez look and perched on a chair.

Lar and I spent ages on the repairs and went around blocking up any other gaps over the units it could fall into. He finally got to start painting at 10:30. Two and a half hours lost.

Even then he wasn’t having a good day. The wind was bitterly cold and gusting up Arctic strength as he worked on the plinth either side of the glass doors. He laid out a narrow strip of carpet to protect his knees and catch any drips. A full 5l paint drum on one end and he on the other prevented the wind lifting it.

He happened to glance up. Coming straight at his face with claws bared was a feline Hitler. (The cat had jumped from the back of a chair onto the door handles). Startled, Lar toppled back. The carpet whipped up in the wind sending the paint drum toppling too. Lar dived to save it but was too slow. 5l of paint poured onto the path. The strip of carpet flapped in and out of the paint puddle, splashing the walls, glass doors and Lar in patterns that would put Hirst to shame. I hooked up the garden hose but the wind was drying the mess too fast and it was pointless. We spent the next three hours scrapping splotches off the doors and repainting the walls. The cat dropped gracefully down off the door handles and went for a snooze on the mat. I could swear I heard an evil snigger.

And that was just one day. There have been ten to date. I am sick of screaming “get thee to a cattery”. This cat is the result of some mad scientist’s genetic experiment - part Nazi, part SAS commando, part Omen, part McCavity. A genetically modified moggie.

Daddy would be working Saturday. Would I be on for helping entertain the two boys? We could take them to the forest park. Or if the weather is bad, just drive around and stop for lunch somewhere. Maybe we’d have lunch in that place we’d visited a couple of months ago - The Geraldine. Anywhere really, just to get them out of the house.

No problem, Kathy, says I. We’ll think of something to get them out. Little boys are like farts: better out than in, eh.

Lovely image, Primal. Thanks. I’ll never be able to look at my sons the same way again.

Saturday morning the weather didn’t look promising. Wind and rain and more forecast. The boys nodded off as soon as we set out. Kathy breathed a sigh of relief. The peace was welcome. Seán had passed the morning jumping off chairs declaring himself to be Capin Jack Sarrragh - a brave and fearless pirate, but one likely to crack his head against a windowsill. It can be difficult reason with brave and fearless pirate captains when they have just turned three. His brother, king Oisín, had banged the tray of his throne (high-chair) bellowing aawaaahh sna sna sna wheeyh which roughly translates as damn it, woman! Feed me now! Tír na nÓg can be a terrifying place.

But now they slept. Their oh- and ah-inducing angelic faces belying the demonic ones of just 20 minutes ago. When we got to The Geraldine they were still sleeping like teenagers so there was no point stopping. We’d go as far as the forest park anyway and see if the newly acquired annual pass, a smartcard, was working. It was and we drove in and pulled up in the car park.

Kathy had an idea. Look the sun’s coming out. You stay with the lads and I’ll go down to the café and get us a couple of toasted sambos and something for the pirate. I’ll ask them to warm the king’s bottle. All going well they’ll wake soon, we’ll feed them, then go for a walk. Now what would you like to drink with your toastie?

Not coffee anyway. Their coffee is shite. Do they do anything else

Yeah. They do soup. Don’t know what it’s like though.

Shur just ask them if it’s shite. If it’s not, then I’ll have some.

So I just say excuse me, is your soup shite? And if they say yes, I get something else? What if they lie and say it isn’t shite?

We’re in a forest with a pirate and a king. Anything could happen. This is the stuff of legend. Trust your instincts. Go now, and may the force go with you.

Kathy set out on her quest taking the force with her. And her wallet too - the force doesn’t work unless you have a few quid in your pocket. The sun was warm now. I let down the windows and lay back in the seat.

Just as I was nodding off there was a clap of thunder. Then another one. The skies opened and the hailstones hammered down on the roof of the car. The king woke up screaming and woke the pirate. The pirate leaned over, stroking his little brother’s cheek, explaining it’s only big noisy rain. Pirates have a tender side.

Pirates being used to the expanse of the high seas can also be a bit claustrophobic so I turned on the windscreen wipers so he could see out. A big mistake. He screamed in terror and set the king off crying again. Through the trees and coming straight toward us was a big black scary monster. Pirates know all about monsters and nothing I could say could calm him. We were going to be taken. Then we were going to be eaten. Monsters prefer takeaway it seems.

Kathy had been about to leave the café when the hail started. Seeing she had no coat the staff had cut holes for her eyes and mouth in a large back plastic refuse sack and pulled it down over her. All that was visible was her feet.

The force and/or wallet had worked wonders. There were toasted ham & cheese sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil. Big chunks of ham, not the photocopied stuff sandwich bars sell. One toastie cut into strips with a side order of crisps in a paper cup - pirates can be particular. A banana on a paper plate. A plastic fork to mash it and a spoon to eat it with. Kings like to dine in style. Two large beakers of hot homemade soup for the slaves.

We ate like kings … pirates and slaves. Actually, with four of us now in the front we ate more like octopuses. A sandwich in my hand had to take a carefully planned and calculated parabolic trajectory to get to my mouth. Even then it ran the risk having a bite taken out of it en route. Tell ye what, lads. When we win the lotto, we’ll treat ourselves to a picnic in a lunar lander or a one-man sub. Imagine the room we’ll have then!

There was a problem though: Kathy had forgotten a drink for the pirate. My turn to go to the café. If they don’t have rum, I’ll get Ribena. Okay? … There are no monsters, but if it’ll make you happy, I will be careful and not get taken. Reassured, he returned to the task of twisting every knob and pulling even lever on the dashboard.

Picnic in the carpark? With two small kids and the woman in the rubbish sack? Yes, I admitted to the woman behind the counter, how did you guess? You look stressed. Don’t suppose you’ve any rum?

When I got back the pirate was gone. A cowboy had taken his place. The pirate ship was now a space rocket. His royal highness was laid out on the passenger seat having the royal nappy changed. The hail came again and I was forced to squeeze into the back between two child seats. The cowboy needed to ride off into the sunset or somewhere equally important and I was chosen as his mount before I had time to say no, nay or neigh. The back of a Fiesta is small at the best of times but in a space rocket with two child seats, a cowboy and a horse there isn’t room to change your mind.

I needed a pint after that. Thought you’d be in earlier for the racing, Primal? Couldn’t. Busy. Working on the house? No. I accidentally went on an Irish picnic in a space rocket in a forest with a monster, a pirate, a cowboy, a horse and a king. Right so. Wasn’t great weather for that kind of thing. No. But the sandwiches were lovely.