‘A child minder arrives, full of the joys, only to leave like a soldier who’s just done a tour of, I don’t know, Iran or Iraq or whichever one it is’

Sorcha takes one look at me and goes, "You're not actually wearing that?" a line I've learned, from a decade of marriage, is Passive Aggressive for, "You're not actually wearing that."

She's referring to my Leinster jersey, which she strongly believes isn't appropriate attire for dinner in the Shelbourne Hotel.

"If I don't wear it," I go, "people will think I'm embarrassed about the tonking we took from Munster last weekend. The tiniest sign of weakness and my critics are on me. Which is how it should be. That's rugby."

She’s there, “Ross, go and change,” which is what I end up having to do – into just a plain blue shirt, though, because I’m nothing if not a hordcore fan.

By the time I come back downstairs, Anja – our new, like, child minder? – has arrived. Even from the end of hallway, I can see that she's a ringer for Oona Chaplin. She's all smiles when Sorcha introduces us and I give her one of my cheeky little winks, thinking, if I get so much as a flicker of encouragement back here, I'll be all over her like a wet shower curtain.

“Now,” the woman goes, looking around her, “where is this gorgeous, gorgeous little girl I’ve heard so much about?”

Me and Sorcha exchange a look. It’s obvious that my wife has slightly oversold our daughter at the interview stage.

We've been here many times before, of course. A new child minder arrives, full of the joys, like Mary Poppins, only to leave five hours later, holding onto the wall and staring into the mid- distance like a soldier who's just done a tour of, I don't know, Iran or Iraq or whichever one it is.

Right on cue, Honor arrives downstairs. She looks at the new child minder like me sizing up a Classic with bacon and cheese fries.

“Hello,” Anja goes, “you must be Honor!”

Sorcha looks at me, then flicks her head in the direction of the door. There’s usually only a five- to 10-second window in which to get out. I hear Honor go, “Your breath smells like a focking herring trawler” just as we’re pulling the door closed, then, five seconds after that, we’re in the back of a taxi and Anya is suddenly legally obliged to put up with anything Honor says and does to her between now and midnight.

Sorcha’s like, “It’s nice to get out, Ross, isn’t it?”

I’m there, “Yeah, no, definitely. In some ways, I’d love to never go back.”

“Are you intrigued, by the way, as to why my mum and dad have asked us out to dinner?”

"Er, not really. I'm possibly more hungry than your word intrigued?"

“Because I think I know the reason. I think it’s a surprise birthday dinner.”

Sorcha’s birthday. Oh, no, did I miss it? I can never remember whether it’s in the autumn or the spring slash summer.

Then I breathe a sigh of relief, because she goes, “Obviously it’s not for another two weeks, but they’re going to be away, so they’ve – oh my God – obviously arranged something for tonight!”

We arrive at the Shelly, then into the Saddle Room we trot. From across the restaurant, we can see Sorcha’s old pair, and, at the same table, her friends, Chloe, Sophie and Amie with an ie, her sister, whose name I don’t know, even though I’ve been with her numerous times, then another bird she’s been friends with since UCD, who works in a candle shop and isn’t much to look at and that’s not me being a dick.

Sorcha goes running across the restaurant floor, going, "Oh my God! Oh! My! Actual! God! I can't believe you did this! Although I did suspect something! You were being – oh my God – so secretive on the phone! This is already the best birthday surprise ever!"

No one smiles. No one even stands up. That’s when I twig that there’s something not quite right about this scene.

“This isn’t a birthday party,” it’s Sorcha’s old dear who eventually goes. “It’s an intervention.”

At first, roysh, I think I may have, like, misheard her? Except Sorcha obviously heard the same thing, because she goes, "An intervention? Is this about the second glass of wine I had the night I invited you over for the Downton Abbey series five premiere?"

“It has nothing to do with your drinking,” Sorcha’s old man goes. “It’s about your daughter. She’s out of control.”

Sorcha's mouth drops open, like a seal waiting for sardines to be flung. Bear in mind, we haven't even sat down at this stage?

“Oh my God,” she goes, “I can’t believe you’ve ambushed me like this.”

Chloe’s there, “It’s not an ambush, Babes. We’re concerned about you.”

“You’ve been talking about my daughter behind my back.”

Sorcha’s old man suddenly loses it. He’s like, “Everyone’s been talking about your daughter behind your back! She’s notorious – all over town. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve overhead complete strangers talking about her carry-on. And you’re not doing anything about it.”

I try to be the peacemaker. I'm like, "Dude, your kids turn out how they turn out. I'd be very much a believer in that, I don't know, philosophy?"

“You see, this is what we mean,” Sorcha’s old dear goes. “You’re in denial, the two of you. You keep saying you’ve no questions to ask yourselves as parents…”

“We don’t. I literally believe that.”

“Do I need to give you a list of things she’s done,” Sorcha’s old man goes, “even in the last two weeks? She used anti-freeze to write, ‘Crock of shit’ across the bonnet of my car – it’s eaten right through to the bodywork.”

He drives a 1998 Volvo Sedan, even though I’m not defending the girl.

“She used my credit card details,” Sorcha’s old dear goes, “to book me into a clinic for electrolysis.”

The woman has a bit of a Must Dash that she has to sometimes bleach – again, that’s not me taking sides.

Sorcha’s old man goes, “Your daughter has become a major problem and you need to call in a professional.”

I go, "Who did Nidge use to whack Lizzy in Love/Hate?"

I can be very, very funny.

It does nothing to lighten the atmos, though. Sorcha just shakes her head slowly, tears already streaming down her cheeks and goes, “I will never, ever speak to any of you again.”

And then we’re suddenly back in a taxi – having had no dinner, remember. And Sorcha says nothing, except, “I actually don’t believe they did that,” three or four times on the road.

And then we finally arrive home to find Anya standing outside the gaff, looking traumatised. She doesn’t say a word – she doesn’t even ask to be paid – she just walks towards her cor, clearly shell-shocked, with what I can’t help but notice is a really bad limp. ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE