Families who rent are four times less likely to take holidays
One in eight (12 per cent) single-parent households were unable to afford regular leisure activities such as swimming, playing an instrument or youth organisation membership for their children, compared with 4.3 per cent of two-parent households, the study published on Thursday finds.
Overall, more than one in six (18 per cent) Irish households with children could not afford a one-week holiday for their children, but this rate increases to 33 per cent for children in single-parent households.
'When analysed by the number of parents in the household, one in three single-parent households could not afford a seven-day holiday for their children, more than double the rate for two-parent households (14 per cent),' says the CSO.
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Looking at household tenure type, it says: 'One in three (33.2 per cent) households in rented accommodation could not afford a one-week holiday for their children, four times higher than the rate for owner-occupied households (8.6 per cent).'
The findings are taken from a module in the annual Survey on Income and Living Conditions (SILC) report, which was published on Thursday.
It finds more than half (55 per cent) of households with no working adult – whether due to unemployment, long-term illness or disability – could afford a one-week holiday for their children, compared with one in four (26 per cent) of households with one working adult and 10 per cent of those with two working adults.
The SILC survey data are collected by the CSO from households using computer-assisted interviews and data collection. These latest data were gathered in 2023.
Asked about ability to afford a regular leisure activity for their children, 6 per cent of households said they could not afford this. However, one in four (25 per cent) households where there was no working adult could afford it, compared with 8 per cent where one adult was working and 3 per cent where two were.
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Third of households with single adult and children went into debt to meet ordinary living costs last year
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'A higher percentage of households without an Irish-born parent (17 per cent) reported that they could not afford leisure activities for their children when compared with households with at least one Irish-born parent (2 per cent).'
Parents were asked about their ability to afford new – as opposed to second-hand – clothes for their children. In 2023, 2.5 per cent of households with children could not afford this.
'Looking at the impact of tenure status on this ... shows that households in rented accommodation were more likely to be deprived of new clothes when compared with owner-occupied households – 5.6 per cent versus 0.6 per cent,' it says.
On school trips and school events, almost 2 per cent of households could not afford these for their children. Among single-parent households the rate was 10times higher (6.2 per cent) than for two-parent families (0.6 per cent).
Across the population one in 50 households with children reported not being able to afford to invite their children's friends to play or eat occasionally.
'Households with no working adult were more likely to be unable to afford this activity at 7 per cent of such households, compared with 0.5 per cent of those with two working adults.'
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That sun would take it out of you all the same. There's something wrong with this brandy, says Gertie, who's just taken her first sip. It's soft. First the cone, now the brandy, you're in awful fettle, says Rose, sniffing her drink and letting a smidgen pass her lips. It tastes fine to me. I bet there's water in it. Doubles, my eye. Rose takes a more measured drink and says, It tastes all right to me. I'll swap with you if you want? Blather, says Gertie, rising. Where are you going? I'm going off for a swim in the bay. What? I'm going to the bloody toilet, Rose. Do you want a hand? I'm grand. You're gone as bad as the young nurse inside in St Teresa's. Fussing. Always fussing. Gertie makes her way towards the bathroom. Is it any wonder she is as irritable as she is, as forgetful as she is, when she's trapped inside in that home? Rose decides she'll bring Gertie away from St Teresa's more often. The better part of the summer is still ahead. She can socialise Gertie back to wellness. A dark-haired, ponytailed waitress wearing black jeans, a tight black T-shirt and a glimmering stud in her nose passes by carrying three plates of fish and chips. The scent of fried oil and vinegar lingers after her. Rose looks beyond her towards a wall where a collection of music posters makes a haphazard collage. She spies a poster of her son when he still had hair and when his band was at their peak. Now he's a self-described bald middle-aged pub singer. But he was laughing when he said this, and that was important. In his 20s and early 30s Derek had been in a rock band whose music Rose couldn't abide and whose relative success baffled her. But he got himself into trouble with the drink and God knows what else. He was a good lad growing up, kind to his younger siblings, but he always had a sensitive streak in him. Whatever he was doing when he was in the band, the alcohol or the drugs, it didn't stand him in any stead. Sometimes she wouldn't hear from him for weeks and would be tied in knots with the worry. Her other children had little sympathy for their brother. Deirdre and Peter said people make their own choices in life. But Gertie had been mighty help in those days, and Rose still can't say how she'd have coped without her friend's support. Over copious cups of tea, Gertie would offer comforting half-truths, insisting Derek would eventually find his way. And one day he did come home, broke down and told her he was sick of everything, sick of himself. He left the band and dried out. He went off to Portugal where he took up a residency in a friend's bar. He loved it there, even found himself a grand little Portuguese woman. He took up fishing. It was a boon for Rose these past number of years to know Derek was finally okay. He was the only one she'd had to worry about. Deirdre had always been serious, even a bit dreary, but solid. Peter, the middle child, barely crossed Rose's mind. She felt bad about this at times, but he'd moved to Manchester at 18 for college and stayed there afterwards, working as a civil engineer, marrying a girl from Stockport and settling down five doors further along the same terraced street as her parents. He went very English altogether, even developed a twirl to his accent. The craythur, Rose thinks now, did I give him enough attention at all? She takes out her phone and sends him a picture of her brandy on WhatsApp and says: On a lovely afternoon trip to Lahinch with Gertie. Saw a rescue in the water! V sunny day. All well here. Hope all well there. Love to Becky and the kids x She puts her phone away, takes a mouthful of brandy. Then she eyes Gertie's glass, sniffs it and takes a sip. Sure enough, it tastes a little weaker than her own. She leaves it down on the table again. Gertie comes back from the bathroom and sits down. They drink the rest of their brandies in silence, intermittently nodding and smiling at the young waitress. I think it's time to hit the road, says Rose, when they finish their cognacs. High time, says Gertie. At the bus stop, a long-bearded man wearing a tie-dyed bandanna is tracking the bus's journey. He tells them it's delayed somewhere up near Doolin and won't arrive for another 25 minutes. Rose has always been proud of her ability to remain continent into her late 70s, but now she feels an almighty urge to go to the toilet and is relieved at the bus's delay. Gertie says just in case that bad brandy has any ill-effect she should go with her too, so they walk through the car park to the public toilets. After they go to the bathroom they have time, Rose says, for one last jaunt on the prom. She wants to catch a final sight of the water, another whiff of the briny air. They stand near the top of the slipway where the incoming tide is sweeping on to the breakwater rocks with timid gushes. She looks around at the throngs of people, their arms and legs and faces pinked by the sun. The bustle of the place, the sight of the water, the blasting heat of the sun: it is all so invigorating. She takes a deep breath and tells Gertie they'll come out here again soon. The next fine day. The bus'll be gone, says Gertie. And they do need to make a move on. But as Rose turns to follow Gertie back towards the bus stop she feels her left big toe stub something and her stomach flutters because she is momentarily, sickeningly weightless, and she realises she's falling towards the paved ground, her body twisting in mid-air as she clutches at nothing, and she hits the footpath's kerb on its angle. She hears the crack and splinter of bone before she feels a staggering pain in her right hip. A crowd gathers around her. She looks up and thinks she sees some of the same people who were cheering the rescue earlier, but she's in such agony that she could, perhaps, be seeing things. After a minute she can't really see anything because she closes her eyes against the bald sun's glare and when she opens them again everything is green and blurry. From somewhere, someone says, God, the poor thing, I saw it, she took an awful land. Another voice says he's just called the ambulance and it'll be out in no time. And then she hears Gertie's voice, answering a question. Ennis, she says. We took the bus out this morning. Rose McCormack is her name. She'd be 78, the very same as myself, didn't we grow up together? The poor craythur, she'll be in with me now after this anyway. She'll be down the hall from me. A gentle spray blows in with a breaking wave. Droplets fall on Rose's face like drizzle. She tastes the saltiness of the ocean on her dry lips. She can no longer hear voices. Instead she hears something strange coming from beyond the land. She almost smiles when she recognises the melody. It's a tune Frank used to whistle to himself when he'd spend an age shaving in front of the mirror, the door wide open, the notes carrying through the house. She hasn't heard this tune in years, decades. But soon the notes jumble up and the sound rings horribly in her head, like tinnitus. She feels the scratch of the hard concrete against her cheek, and she pleads with Frank, wherever he might be, whether he is somewhere out there or nowhere at all, to take her now. Mattie Brennan was the winner of the 2024 RTÉ Short Story Competition Mattie Brennan's short stories have featured in The Stinging Fly, Southword and The Menteur. He was the winner of the 2024 RTÉ Short Story Competition. Originally from Co Sligo, he now lives in Co Clare
