After 10 seconds of me kissing her, she drops the paella pan and it shatters on the kitchen floor
Sorcha says I’ve lost it. But I tell her I know what I saw. I’m like, “My old pair were getting off with each other, Sorcha. It’s disgusting. They’re supposed to be divorced. He’s supposedly married to someone else.”
Sorcha goes, “What I’m saying, Ross, is that you might have, like, misinterpreted it? It might have just been just a kiss, like the way I kiss my dad.”
“Believe me, it wasn’t like the way you kiss your dad.”
“Or the way I kiss my grandmother.”
“Babes, I’d be seriously worried if you kissed your grandmother like this. Her mouth was going like a focking trout trying to take a fly.”
“Okay,” she goes, laughing. “Show me.”
I’m like, “Excuse me?”
“Demonstrate it on me.”
“It’s not funny, Sorcha. They’re having an affair, I’m telling you.”
“Show me, Ross. Show me how he kissed her.”
So I go, “Okay, then – if that’s what you want,” and I move in closer to her.
One of the things I really love about myself is how good a kisser I am. It’s a bit like my kicking, I often think. You put the hours into it and you get the results out of it.
I give her a deep, meaningful look for two or three seconds – letting you in on a little trick of the trade there – cock my head to one side, then I move in and throw the lips on her. After 10 seconds of me kissing her, she ends up dropping the paella pan she was holding and it shatters on the kitchen floor. It’s pretty flattering that I can still get a reaction like that out of my wife after all these years of marriage.
I pull away. It’s a good 10 seconds before she can even talk. I’m a genuinely amazing kisser.
“Oh,” she goes, suddenly wiser. “Oh my God.”
I’m there, “See? That’s the point I’ve been trying to make. It was like an actual proper kiss. He couldn’t have made more of a meal of her if he’d stuck her focking head between two pieces of bread.”
She’s like, “Okay, Ross, I get the point.”
Her face is still a bit flushed and that’s not me being bigheaded.
I’m there, “I’m going to confront him. I’m going to do one of those . . . what was that thing that you and your friends used to do when a girl skipped lunch two days in a row?”
She goes, “It’s called an intervention, Ross. And I don’t think you should do one in this case. Your mum and dad are grown-ups.”
“They weren’t acting like that. You couldn’t have separated them with a tyre iron. He’s supposed to be married to Helen, who I actually like?”
She goes, “Ross, it’s really none of your business. You should stay out of it.”