LONG WAIT FOR RESULTS IS OVER

THIS morning marks the end of the anxious wait for Leaving Certificate results for over 1,500 young people across the county.

A total of 1,553 students – 704 females and 849 males – will receive their large brown envelope this morning while 72 students, 25 females and 47 males will get the results of the Leaving Certificate Applied exams.

Once the results are collected, both in school and online, the students must then wait for the first round of the CAO offers next week.

While all the advice points towards students taking time to assess their results carefully and not to be disappointed whatever the outcome, there has also been some important information circulated on marking the occasion safely when it comes to partying.

Drinkaware are appealing to parents to discuss their exam celebration plans with their children as they collect their Leaving Cert exam results tomorrow.

Parents can be unsure how to approach the subject of alcohol use with their teenage children or other parents, particularly at this time when many receiving results tomorrow may already be of legal drinking age.

According to Yvonne Rossiter, Interim Chief Executive Officer of Drinkaware, the post-results celebrations do not have to be synonymous with the now expected reports about drunken teenagers spilling out of nightclubs.

‘We simply should not accept that the two go hand in hand,’ she said. ‘We should not presume that young people will drink to excess. Far from it, young people are telling us that they are looking for alternatives to alcohol and now it’s time we listened to them and gave them the kind of practical knowledge and advice they can apply to stay safe and be healthy. We are appealing to parents to discuss with their children their plans for results night, find out who they will be with, if alcohol will be present and how they plan to get home,’ she added.

Further information is available at www.drinkaware.ie WE’D ALL LIKE to think that if we suddenly shuffled off this mortal coil, we’d leave behind a trail of devastated loved ones. Everyone wants to make their mark on the world, no matter how small that mark is. It’s kind of comforting to think that if you weren’t around anymore, somebody, somewhere would always be grieving for you, keeping a tiny little space in their heart with your name engraved on it. You’d like to think that wouldn’t you? It was one of those late-night, after-a-bottle-of-wine conversations that I shouldn’t have started. You know the kind: ‘How many women were you with before me?’ (seriously, like any man is going to answer that honestly) or ‘Do you think I need to lose weight?’ (see previous comment) or ‘If I died, how long would it take you to get over me and meet someone else?’

I know, I know. By asking that question, I was only asking for trouble but I obviously have masochistic tendencies because I did. And one of my husband’s favourite pastimes is winding me up so I knew even before he said anything, this wasn’t going to end well.

‘Well obviously I couldn’t put an exact time frame on it but I’d be very upset,’ he says.

‘How upset? Would you be so upset that you wouldn’t be able to eat or drink, or get out of bed?’ I enquire. He looks taken aback. ‘Ah no, I wouldn’t be that bad.’

He realises his mistake and tries to backtrack. ‘Like of course I’d be devastated. Course I would.’ He pats my hand. I take a large gulp of wine. ‘But sure, you know at the end of the day, life goes on.’

I take another gulp of wine and say, ‘well maybe for you it does but I’ll be dead’.

He starts to laugh but recovers quickly. ‘Hahahaha true. But no of course, my love, I’d be devastated.’ I hate when he calls me his ‘ love’ because I know for a fact then that he’s taking the Mick.

‘I’d give you two months max and you’d be up in the tennis club swinging your racket and chasing a replacement,’ I say huffily. ‘Ah now, that’s not fair. I wouldn’t do that. Not after two months.’ I ignore him. ‘I even know exactly who you’d go for.’ ‘Who?’ he says intrigued. ‘ That one with the swishy pony tail and the long legs,’ I reply, looking down self pityingly at my hobbit-like pins. ‘Which one with the swishy pony tail?’ he asks. ‘You know the one, with the long brown swishy hair – what’s her name? Eh, Lyn, I think...’

He pauses for a second and then replies: ‘Ah no, you mean Lydia. Her name’s Lydia.’

Didn’t I say this wouldn’t end well?