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Valentine’s Day is one anniversary that I’m proud to say I never, ever forget – mainly because it falls on Sean O’Brien’s birthday.
Yeah, no, when I’m in the shop, picking up a cord for the dude, I usually end up noticing the Vally’s Day display and I remember to grab one for Sorcha as well, although it’s never as big as the one I buy for Sean.
I love my wife, but – and this isn't a criticism of her? – she's never helped Leinster to win Heineken Cups or been named the ERC European Player of the Year.
But Valentine’s Day has clearly been on the girl’s mind lately. She’s been printing out orticles, then leaving them around the house, about how to keep the romance in your relationship alive in a time of pandemic, letting me know in no uncertain terms that she still expects the full floor show this year.
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I’ve looked through one or two of these – especially Good Housekeeping’s 27 Valentine’s Day Ideas to Help You Celebrate Your Love at Home – and read their suggestions, including write each other love letters, cook a romantic dinner for two and, my own personal favourite, wear matching outfits for the day.
But none of them allows for the simple truth that, after a year of being locked up together – unromantic as this is possibly going to sound – we are sick and tired of the sight of each other.
I try to make this point to Sorcha, subtly of course, but the conversation ends up escalating pretty quickly.
She’s like, “What do you mean, give it a rest this year?”
I’m there, “I’m just making the point that – no more than any other couple – we’ve been getting on each other’s nerves a bit.”
“That’s not true.”
"Er, you asked me the other night was I breathing louder than usual?"
"I was trying to concentrate on my knitting and you seemed to be breathing louder than you normally do."
“So even my breathing is annoying you?”
“I asked a simple question, Ross. That’s all.”
"Well, I'm just making the point that we've eaten an evening meal together every single night since last Morch and I fail to see how sending the kids to bed early and putting a candle in the middle of the table is going to make it somehow special. It'd be like-"
“Go on, Ross, finish that sentence – what would it be like?”
“It’d be like being in prison for a year – and then one day your cellmate tells you that he’s going to stop farting for a day. It’s a nice gesture, but it doesn’t exactly improve your situation.”
“Oh my God, you don’t have a romantic bone in your body.”
“I’m using an analogy, Sorcha.”
“I suppose you’ll be sending Sean O’Brien a cord.”
Already in the post, my dear.
I’m there, “That’s because I haven’t been locked down with Sean O’Brien – plus it’s a birthday cord.”
“And flowers as well?” she goes.
“That was one year, Sorcha – and it happened to be his 30th.”
Yeah, no, I think she saw the chorge from the florist’s on our credit statement and got her hopes up.
There’s a ring at the front gate then. I press the intercom button and I’m like, “Hello?”
Then a woman’s voice goes, “Ross, it’s Celine,” meaning Celine from five houses up. “I was wondering could I have a word with you and Sorcha?”
So – yeah, no – I buzz her in.
Sorcha’s like, “I wonder what this is about? Jesus, I hope it’s not more banana bread.”
We tip out to the front door and the woman is standing there, two socially distant metres from us.
Sorcha’s there, “If you’ve baked something, Celine, I don’t want to be rude, but-”
"I haven't baked anything," the woman goes – and I relax a bit then, I have to admit. "I would like an explanation for that," and she points at an envelope that she's left on our doorstep.
I bend down and I pick it up. I’m like, “What is it?”
The woman takes a couple of steps backwards like I’m holding toxic waste or something.
"It's a Valentine's cord," she goes, "that your son sent to my daughter."
I’m there, “Yeah, no, Leo’s taken a bit of a shine to Jessica alright.”
She goes, “Have you read what it says on the cord?”
I look at the front. It’s like, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sexy!”
She’s there, “I don’t think that’s an appropriate thing for one five-year-old to write to another.”
The only way to deal with them is to just, like, blank them out. I've driven home from Cornelscourt without them
I laugh. I’m there, “He didn’t write it, Celine – it’s printed on the actual cord.”
“Well, I still think it’s inappropriate,” she goes. “I couldn’t let Jessica see it.”
Sorcha's like, "Can I see the cord?" and I hand it to her.
I’m there, “He chose it himself, Sorcha. Probably because he liked the colour – or the funny picture on the front. I didn’t even look at it. I just handed over the sheks.”
Celine's there, "Well, perhaps you should have looked at it."
I go, “You’ve no idea what it’s like having kids like ours, Celine. The only way to deal with them is to just, like, blank them out. I’ve driven home from Cornelscourt without them. I’m joking, of course.”
I’m not joking.
Sorcha hands the cord back to me, then lets a roar out of her. She’s like, “LEO, COME DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!”
I open the cord. Inside, in pink crayon, he’s written, “Jesica will u be my grilfend,” followed by a backwards question mork.
Like any concerned parent, I’m thinking, ‘Jesus, he’s committing himself very early on here?’
A few seconds later, he's standing at the top of the stairs and he's like, "The fock do you want?"
“Come down here,” Sorcha goes, “I want to talk to you about something,” and he makes his way downstairs, glasses halfway down his nose, focking and blinding under his breath.
I’m there, “Again, Celine, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, but I’m not going to hold it against you for overreacting.”
But Sorcha does something I'm not expecting then? She kneels down, kisses Leo on the cheek and goes, "Don't ever let anyone change that beautiful romantic hort of yours."
And then she goes, “Ross, shut the door on that woman,” which is what I very happily do.