‘Dad asked if I could be Bill Clinton to Sorcha’s Hillary. I suppose the obvious answer to that is, yes’

Honor looks around her with an expression of what can only be described as horror on her face. “Oh my God,” she goes. “What are we doing here?”

Here, I probably should mention, is the election count centre in Roscommon, where we're awaiting news of my wife's effort to win a seat in the European Parliament for – hilariously – Midlands/North West.

It’s genuinely the first time I’ve seen our daughter look up from her phone since we pulled out of the driveway at seven o’clock this morning and it’s now the middle of the afternoon.

“It’s a place called Roscommon,” I go. “And possibly keep your voice down, Honor.”

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“It looks like someone’s rounded up all the people who queue outside post offices waiting for them to open in the morning and given them their own village.”

"Like I said, Honor, maybe lower the volume a tad? These are the people your mother wants to represent in Europe."

“Why?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“But what could she possibly have in common with these people?”

I look around me. The answer, of course, is literally nothing and there's a real, like, "out of the mouths of children" – I don't know – truthfulness to Honor's question?

I’m staring at Sorcha across the floor of the count centre, with her limited-edition Givenchy watch and her Bottega Veneta sunnies on her head. She’s air-kissing Ming Flanagan and going: “You fought a wonderful campaign. Thank you for the quality of the debate,” the exact same line she used when she trounced Emmaline Horkan for the role of head girl in Mount Anville back in 1997.

See, you can get away with a line like that in Goatstown. But the people of Midlands/North West are looking at her like she’s a dog saying sausages. I realise that she’s heading for a hiding long before she does.

She tips over to us, all smiles. "It won't be long before the first tallies are in," she goes. "The exit polls are saying that Ming has done – oh my God – so well, but these things can be wrong, of course."

Honor’s like: “Maybe you need a gimmick like him.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m just saying, he’s got the whole goatee thing going on. Maybe you should – I don’t know – stop bleaching your own facial hair.”

I think about saying something along the lines of, “Honor, maybe you shouldn’t say shit like that to your mother,” except I don’t want to draw her fire on me. Besides, if she wants to make it in politics, Sorcha will have to learn to fight her own battles.

“Honor,” she goes, “I’m not going to allow you to drag down the quality of the political conversation here today. I didn’t go negative during the campaign and I’m not about to start now.”

I decide to say something supportive then. She described me on the New Republic website as the wind beneath her wings. I possibly owe it to her to hit her with something nice.

“Let’s just hope the people of Midlands/North West are ready for an non-mucker,” I go. “It’d be a real Obama moment if you won. The first person from – I don’t know – our kind of background to represent these people.”

She goes: “That’s a lovely thing to say, Ross.”

“Hey, I can give a compliment as well as I can take one, Sorcha.”

"Because you hear people talking about the two-speed economic recovery and how it's creating, like, two Irelands?

"A point I made over and over again during my campaign was that if I was elected, I would endeavour to ensure that the recovery is something everyone experiences, not just people who own property between the Grand Canal and Greystones."

“Hmmm,” I go and my eyes – I can’t help it – automatically stray to the Miu Miu bag hanging from her shoulder.

She’s like: “What?”

I’m there: “Nothing,” except she’s already seen it in my eyes.

“What?” she goes. “You think I won’t win a seat because I have a nice bag and I dress well.”

I’m there: “It’s not just the bag and the clobber, Sorcha. It’s also, I don’t know, the way you talk. And the sunnies on your head. Some people might think you’re rubbing their noses in it.”

She looks at me, as disappointed as she’s ever been in me. She goes: “Well, thank you for the support!” and off she storms.

“Hillaire!” Honor goes.

A hush descends on the room then. The results are about to be announced. That’s when my old man decides to suddenly ring me. I step out of the hall. Honor steps out with me. When I answer, he goes, “It’s a day of days, Kicker! New Republic has won 40 council seats and counting! We’re on the march!”

I’m there: “It’s not a good time, Dude. They’re about to call it here.”

And that’s when – as casual as you like – he goes: “She doesn’t stand a chance, Ross.”

I’m there: “Excuse me?”

“The people of Midlands/North West were never going to vote for your wife. And neither did I want them to. She’s one of New Republic’s brightest lights. I don’t want her disappearing off to, I don’t know, wherever the hell the European Parliament is. I’m banking on her taking Lucinda Creighton’s Dáil seat when the time comes.”

I end up, like, losing it with him. I’m there: “So why the fock did you put her forward for it? We’re in literally Roscommon!”

“Because, Ross, it’s important for her to know the bitter taste of defeat before she savours the sweet taste of victory.

“You remember that from your schools cup days. Sorcha’s day will come.

“But she’s going to need you to be at your supportive best, Ross. Bill Clinton to her Hillary. Can you do it, Ross? Can you be a Bill Clinton?”

I’m there: “I suppose the obvious answer to that is, yes.”

I hang up and I tip back into the count centre, with Honor following me. Sorcha is standing in a corner alone, sobbing her basic hort out.

“I got 85 votes,” she goes. “Ross, that’s 10 fewer than I got when I became head girl in Mount Anville.”

I put my orm around her and I go: “Come on, let’s go home. These aren’t our crowd.”

Honor laughs cruelly and goes, “Oh my God, this is so lollers.”