Grainne has a glint in her eye and a slight insanity in her attitude to life lately. She's bounding around the place, leaping and roaring at PE and putting the rest of us to shame with her exertions in the art and craft department.

Every now and then we catch her grinning smugly to herself. We've seen this affliction before, so we are not alarmed. Chronic Dating Syndrome. She's in lurrve!

And it's progressive. After a few weeks the manic energy will be replaced by exhaustion, lethargy and an enduring narkiness as all the late-night trysts take their toll. She won't Comhra with the same devoutness, nor will she declare War on Writing with a single-minded devotion to calligraphic excellence.

At our advanced age, we are far too decrepit to pass in the same trendy scene as our twenty-something members of staff. This is a mild irritation, not because we long to relive our long-gone days of dancing and courting, but because curiosity is killing us as to the object of Grainne's attentions.

We'll have to wait and hope that a chance slip, or a loose-mouthed gossipy parent, will take us out of our suspense.

And so, all we can do is watch and grin and remember. Being members of what was once expected to be the most asexual group in the country - the female NTs - there was something so wickedly illicit about our courting sessions. You avoided the casual "shift" of other working girls in case your parish priest or, worse, the parents of the children in your class got wind of your philandering.

There should have been a vow of chastity with the diploma we got when we left Carysfort. You either had to walk out with someone with prospects or go far enough afield to be safe from the bush telegraph. And, so, going out, you nailed on your underwear and presented yourself at early Mass the following morning as proof of your virtue.

Guilt or subterfuge do not seem to figure in Grainne's liaisons. That itself is good.

I suppose, in truth, envy plays a part in our fascination with Grainne and her romances, too - envy of her energy and the dedication that makes her go out in search of love week after week.

But wouldn't you think that it would wear her down, that she'd get sick of primping and boogeying and listening to tired old chat-up lines from pimply young lads?

In hindsight, I suppose we never did. And, in all honesty, more than anything else we envy her the incomparable delight of being in the delicious early stages of love. Yes, we still remember that.