Dispatch from Dingle

We have moved to Kerry for 2 months, to avail of a loving grandmother, a bigger house, and less rubbish-strewn streets. The babies are having their first encounters with nature: with beaches, cows and hedges. And though I love Dublin 8, it would be churlish not to seize the opportunity to move to the country when we can, while I'm on paid maternity leave (and I do know how fortunate I am to have this), and Simon can work from a little broom cupboard downstairs.

But let's be honest here. A baby is a lot of work, and two babies is a lot of baby. I miss the support and solidarity of other mums I know in Dublin. It's all a bit of a gilded palace: I look out at the magical light, hard and clear on the hills climbing behind the house - but I can never leave the babies, so I can't get beyond town.

Both babies are teething. Felix lies on his playmat, a menagerie of jungle animals suspended just above him; Max wails helplessly in my arms. Felix is remonstrating loudly with a favourite toy, the one we call Colonel Giraffey. Pacing the kitchen, I interpret his crescendoing acks.

"Your time is up, Giraffey! We will institute a no fly zone!" (Felix has been mandated to negotiate with the Colonel by Nelson Mandelephant).
"Screw you baby!" replies the Colonel. " Our plan is to live and die in Libya. You will never secure a UN resolution in time."
"Well at the very least I'll have you indicted by the International Criminal Court" insists Felix, whose grunts are growing more urgent.
"Ahahahahahaha!" The giraffe laughs evilly. "But Libya does not recognise the jurisdiction of the ICC!"
Felix responds with a shriek of pain. "We'll get you... in Switzerland!" he protests weakly. By now though he is crying uncontrollably, and can't be left any longer.

I put Max down, to continue the negotiations, and pick Felix up.

Simon appears to make coffee. "I suppose if you're going to go stir crazy" he says, "you might as well do it somewhere with a view."