As the English son of Irish parents, my son is not above playing both sides of the national divide. Among his schoolfriends, he evokes his Irishness for the mild exoticism it provides to his multicultural classmates here in Walthamstow. When watching Ireland play football or rugby, however, he instantly becomes a diehard England fan. ‘You’re both,’ we told him last month, when he looked dejected after a Six Nations game (such comforts are, regrettably, unnecessary after football matches). ‘You’re English like your friends, but you’re Irish like us, as well.’ ‘Hmm,’ he said, with considered disagreement. ‘You’re actually from Northern Ireland, Daddy, not Ireland.’ For a long time, I’ve attempted to remove this separation from his mind; to assure him, in the simplest terms I can muster, that if someone from Northern Ireland says they’re Irish, they’re Irish, and if they say they’re British, they’re British. This is, in fairness, a concept many adults have a hard time grasping, so I’ve had my work cut out with my son, one of the biggest sticklers for clear and defined rules in Christendom. Six-year-olds are, in many ways, nature’s traffic wardens; an entire race of four-foot-tall tax accountants on hand to catch you out on any perceived contradiction. Giving him the context necessary to understand multivalent personal identities, or national self-determination, has proven prohibitively difficult. It’s easier, and more fun, to simply lean into it. Thus, it has been my policy for some time now, any time I don’t want to do something, is to insist that it’s something which Northern Irish people are either a) incapable of, or b) exempt from. This finds its most common expression in my son’s passion for jinxes – By these, I mean deliberately saying the same thing as someone and then shouting Jinx which bars them from speaking for an indefinite period thereafter. In some versions of the game the jinxee must have their name said 10 times before the curse is lifted; in others, they become indebted to the jinxer and must perform an act of fealty. I wouldn’t know, because I have never once played along, solemnly intoning that people from Northern Ireland are immune. I take extreme pleasure in playing with my son and revert quite happily to childhood when I do so. But no such joy compares to the thrill of refusing to play along while fraudulently citing the strictures of the 1993 Downing Street Declaration, as it pertains to schoolground games. ‘I can’t,’ I say wistfully as he becomes incandescent with frustrated laughter. ‘In my strange little statelet, suspended from law or logic, such things are impossible. If only I were properly Irish, I could help you!’ This has, miraculously, been accepted by my son, albeit with a little grumbling as to its veracity, and some stern looks from my wife who, hailing from the altogether more sane political entity of the Irish republic, had never thought to play such a card. He’s only recently begun to push back, slowly coming round to the idea that there are benefits to accepting people as they present themselves. In a few weeks, he may even come to consider me as Irish as his mum. I’ll not presume one way or the other. I wouldn’t want to jinx it.