'Women are a bit like cuckoo clocks - fascinating, fun, but no one really knows how they actually work'
I don’t say anything. Wouldn’t give her the pleasure.
“I can’t believe I’m even here,” she goes. “Sundays are supposed to be for Dundrum.”
Sorcha’s like, “You go to Dundrum every Sunday, Honor. Look, you don’t have to come into actual shop with us. We can leave you in Smaland,” which is what they call, like, the creche?
“You mean Sadland,” which is what Honor calls it.
Sorcha goes, “Well, the choice is yours, Honor. You can go to the creche or you can walk around the store with us.”
She’s like, “The creche then,” and then she goes, “You know I’m going to be mixing with northside children and the sons and daughters of the bog. Yeah, rul good parenting, Mom.”
We sign her in. One of the creche workers – who I think looks like Rozanna Purcell – points out the ball pit and the climbing ropes and the games and the paints. Except Honor gives her, like, a withering look, takes out her iPhone and goes, “I have plenty to keep me busy, thank you muchly.”
As Sorcha and I turn away, some poor little girl makes the mistake of trying to become friends with her and Honor goes, “Please don’t speak to me. I don’t want to pick up an accent.”
We go off looking for the hinges. We traipse up and down the aisles silently. After a while, Sorcha goes, “She’s getting worse, Ross. Her behaviour.”
I nod. I’m like, “A consolation for us should be that we don’t have any hord questions to ask ourselves in terms of how we raised her.” And that’s when I hear it, the quiver in my voice, and I realise that I’m actually crying here.
Sorcha takes me by the shoulders and stares into my eyes. “Ross,” she goes, “are you okay?”
I’m like, “She just knows what buttons to press with me.”
“Don’t let her get to you.”
“Saying I’m a loser.”
“You’re not a loser. That thing that George Hook said. That will always stand, Ross.” I nod. “I’m sorry. I’m still a bit emotional after the Welsh match. And the whole Jonny Sexton moving to France thing is possibly only sinking in with me now.”
“You’re still a bit drunk as well.”
“That’s also a possibility.”
“Come on, let’s finally get these hinges and get out of here.”
Which is exactly what we end up doing. When we’ve grabbed them and paid for them, we wander back to the famous Sadland, where six or seven small children are – like me – in tears, and so are one or two of the staff.
“About time,” Honor goes, when she sees us. “Er, lame much?” And one of the creche workers – the one who’s a ringer for Rozanna Purcell – whispers to me, “Please don’t bring her here again.”