Life without the Leaving is not so bad

The Leaving Cert is one of the most important pieces of paper that a fellow can possess. Second only perhaps to toilet paper; you never know when it might come in handy.

I obtained my Leaving Cert 28 years ago this week, and I can recall the day as if it were yesterday. I held it high, just like Neville Chamberlain held the Munich Agreement before the outbreak of the Second World War.

Just like Chamberlain, I felt I had in my grasp a mighty important piece of paper.

After leaving school, one of the first jobs I took up was in Bandon Mart, droving calves. I got this gig not because I knew my way around Pythagoras’s Theorem, or because I could recite a couple of old lines from Shakespeare. I got the mart gig because the mart manager recognised a good man with a stick.

Later in life, I found myself suited up as a security man, tasked with the chore of apprehending nimble- fingered citizens of Cork who had a fondness for stealing knickers and bras.

Stationed at the door of a Cork city clothing store, I got my security job not because of my Leaving Cert, but because I had a car and driving license, and so was able to go hither and tither.

Sometime later, I found myself farming, and the Leaving Cert had damn all to do with that too.

In fact, it was at this stage that I began to wonder if there was ever going to be a time when it would be needed. After all, I had discovered that when it came to work, and indeed romance, the Leaving Cert left a lot to be desired.

For example, when I would pull from my pocket my Leaving Cert in an effort to woo the ladies, they usually looked at me as if I had two heads.

And if I was to follow this by whispering gently into the ear that, “The square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides,” many would leave me on the spot. So by the time my missus came on the scene, I had given up entirely on exposing myself in that way.

I married, a house was tossed up, children appeared — and all without the need of hauling out my Leaving Cert.

But I still kept it in my pocket, just in case.

Then, last week, after 28 years, my Leaving Cert finally came into good use.

I happened to be in the city with my missus and, in need of a bit of refreshment, we called to this place that had a wonderful whiff of coffee coming out the door.

So I ordered two cups of their finest coffee and placed them on our table. Well if I did, didn’t the table start to wobble like you wouldn’t believe.

’Twas like being on the Titanic. While their coffee may have been supreme, their furnishings left a lot to be desired.

With one table leg shorter than the other, didn’t I suddenly get a brain wave. And whipping out my Leaving Cert from my pocket, one last time, I folded it over and over, until it came to a decent lump. Then I shoved it under the wobbly leg and, heavens above, didn’t it stabilise the rig like you wouldn’t believe.

And with my missus and I able to enjoy a well earned break, my Leaving Cert at long last had finally found a use.