'Women are a bit like cuckoo clocks - fascinating, fun, but no one really knows how they actually work'

I t’s about time the Government declared Brian O’Driscoll’s birthday a national holiday,” I go. “They should call it Thanksgiving Day and everyone should be given a day off work, just to think and, I don’t know, be actually grateful.” I’m still buzzing off what happened in Cordiff and I’m still possibly a bit mulled.

Sorcha goes, “Hmmm,” not really listening to me. She’s driving around and around the cor pork of Ikea in Ballymun looking for somewhere to stick the Hyundai Santa Fe. There are plenty of spaces, by the way, but she insists on finding one that’s close to the entrance of the actual store. Five nights a week, you’ll find my wife walking up and down Newtownpork Avenue, swinging her orms wildly, trying to work off the old Xmas cargo. But when it comes to shopping, she’ll spend an hour driving around to spare herself a 10-second walk.

Women are a bit like cuckoo clocks. They’re fascinating. They’re a lot of fun. But no one really understands how they actually work.

“Why are you always talking about rugby?” Honor goes.

She’s sitting in the back with a face on her like she’s sucking battery acid. A trip to Ikea isn’t her idea of a fun Sunday afternoon. It’s not mine either. But Sorcha got a call to say that the hinges have finally arrived for the Leksvik buffet cabinet we bought in 2009.

I’m there, “Rugby is a massive, massive part of my life, Honor. I take it very seriously. So should everyone – that’s just my view.”

“I don’t know why,” she goes – six years of age, remember. “You were rubbish at it.”

I stay calm. “There’s a lot of people who wouldn’t agree with that assessment. George Hook reckoned I had the potential to be as good as Mike Gibson. Ryle Nugent said I was a definite future Ireland captain.”

She goes, “But you weren’t. So you were a failure.”

Sorcha comes rushing to my defence. She saw me when I was at my peak, remember – even though she knows fock-all about the game. She’s like, “Stop picking on your father, Honor.”

“Er, I’m not picking on him?” she goes. “I’m just asking him why he didn’t make it if he was as good as he says he was.”

I’m there, “Injuries. Bad luck. I said a few things to Warren Gatland one night in the Berkeley Court with a few drinks on me, which possibly didn’t help my cause. Then I did the same with Eddie O’Sullivan – except that was in Jury’s in Cork.”

She goes, “So what you’re saying is you’re a loser.”

“Honor,” Sorcha goes, finally pulling into a space, “leave your father alone.”

“Oh my God, he needs you to fight his battles for him now, does he?”

We get out of the cor and we walk to the shop. Along the way, Honor kicks the back of my heels and I trip and sort of, like, stagger forward. “Oh, soz,” she goes, pretending it’s an accident. “Hashtag – such a klutz!”