So we’re hanging out with people who tattoo their emotions onto their knuckles now, are we?
So we’re walking out the door, on the way to a rehearsal for Honor’s school orchestra recital in the Mansion House, when Sorcha says something that makes me wonder did I mishear her, or am I possibly even having a stroke? She’s like, “You’re not going to need your cor keys, Ross! We’re getting the bus into town!”
Honor is on it straight away. “Are you having a nervous breakdown?” she goes.
I’m there, “Honor, let me handle this. Sorcha, what the fock’s going on? You’re not making any sense.” She goes, “It’s about time that Honor experienced what it’s really like out there. She has a completely distorted view of the world and what it owes her.”
It’s obvious what this is, like, really about? Sorcha took one look at Honor’s Santa List and decided she was replacing Christmas this year with – I shit you not – Thriftmas! Which involves, apparently, making presents – and we are talking in an orts and crafts kind of way?
She said she was going to make her a diamante iPad cover using a piece of leather and the sequins from an asymmetric fastening dress that she bought from Warehouse and never wore. And a Joanne Hynes-style statement collar by embroidering and decorating a collar from just a Dunnes Stores men’s shirt.
Honor happened to overhear this conversation and refused to eat, speak or leave her room for three days. Usually, you have to wait until they’re 16 before they do that.
But we’re getting the bus into town. And I know Sorcha long enough to realise that resistance is basically futile. Honor gives it a good go, though. On the walk to the bus stop, she’s all, “Er, I have rights, you know?” which has become a bit of a catchphrase for her over the last couple of weeks. I don’t want to make light of that whole referendum business, but if Honor gets with any more rights, we’re going to end up having to pay rent to her.
We’re public transport virgins and pretty much everyone on the 46A can see it, especially from the way Sorcha hands the driver a €50 note for our three fares, takes the tickets, then sort of, lingers for a few seconds, unsure about whether she’s even entitled to change?
She has literally no idea whether the bus costs five yoyos or 50 and she’s telling Honor that she needs to spend some time in the real world! “Your change is there, love,” the driver goes, pointing at her ticket. “You have to go into Dublin Bus headquarters to cash it in.”
“Dublin Bus headquarters?” she goes. “Where’s that?” because obviously there’s no reason for people like us to know. He’s like, “O’Connell Street.” I actually laugh. I’m there, “O’Connell Street? They know no one’s going to go there! They can keep it!”
We end up having to go upstairs for a seat. Sorcha’s got her determined face on – “Non timebo mala,” as the nuns out in Goatstown used to say – while Honor has a look of disgust on her face, like she ordered duck liver parfait and got Pedigree Chum.