‘Honor is waiting with her list of demands and a face on her that would scare the flies off roadkill badger’

Sitting down with my daughter to write her letter to Santa Claus is like taking port in hostage negotiations – you stort off with a list of unreasonable demands, accompanied by threats of extreme violence, then you plead and you beg and you eventually give in and let her have everything she wants because you’re terrified of what she might otherwise do.

It’s the one day of the year that I always dread.

Thursday night, I’m stretched out on the sofa in my baggy Cantos with the focked elastic, watching a recording of The Ster destroying The Scorlets from the previous weekend, when Sorcha all of a sudden appears in the doorway of the living room and – in a voice full of concern – goes, “Ross, it’s time.”

I’m like, “No . . . Please . . . Just no . . .”

She's like, "Come on, Ross. It doesn't look too bad this year. I've seen it. It's only three A4 pages long – although there is writing on both sides."

I’m suddenly remembering one of Fr Fehily’s old sayings: “Courage is being afraid but saddling up anyway.”

So I pause the action, take a breath and I stand up. I’m like, “Okay, let’s face this thing,” and I go to walk out of the room.

Sorcha’s like, “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

I’m there, “Errr . . .” and I genuinely mean it. I don’t know what she’s talking about.

She goes, “Your glasses, Ross!”

They’re still in their box, hidden under a pile of newspapers.

I'm like, "I, er, don't think I need them for this," because Honor hasn't actually seen me wearing them yet? And as far as I'm concerned, she's never going to. "To be honest, Sorcha, I'm still not convinced that I need them at all."

“Ross, you tried to chat up your own mother in Dalkey last weekend. She told me that herself.”

“God, she’s full of herself that one.”

“She said you whispered something disgusting in her ear.”

“She had her back to me. She smelled nice. It was an easy mistake to make.”

“Ross, if you can’t recognise your own mother from two feet away, then there is something wrong with your vision. Put on your glasses.”

“No . . . I don’t want to wear them.”

“Oh my God, why are you talking like a child? Why don’t you want to wear your glasses?”

And that's when I end up just blurting it out. I'm like, "I don't want her to see me in them?"

She goes, “Who? Honor?”

“Honor. Exactly.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’ll just give her more ammunition. Something else to slag me about – on top of my rugby tactics book and the fact that I never actually made it as a player despite my obvious talent.”

"Yeah, Ross, you're supposed to be an adult?"

“I am an adult.”

“Well, act like one then.”

“Okay. If she storts saying hurtful things to me, though, it’d be nice to think that you’d step in and tell her to stop.”

Sorcha rolls her eyes and I follow her into the kitchen, where Honor is waiting with her list of demands and a face on her that would scare the flies off roadkill badger.

That all changes the second she cops me. For a few seconds, it’s as if she doesn’t recognise her own father, but then I see the delight slowly register on her face. And then the oh my Gods stort up.

She’s like, “Oh! My God! Oh! My God! Oh! My God!”

She’s so excited about having something new on me that the first three or four things that come out of her mouth end up being total gobbledygook. She’s like, “Glass . . . Oh my . . . Specs . . . Specses . . .” until I feel like nearly telling her to just breathe and take her time.

“Goggles!” is the first proper word out of her mouth, followed seconds later by “Frog-eyed Freddie!” and “Conservatory face!” and then “Specky!” and “Speckulus Prime!”

Sorcha goes, “Your father has to wear glasses for reading and watching TV, Honor. Let’s all get over that basic fact, shall we?”

Except Honor is on an actual roll now?

“PVC Windows! Microsoft Windows! Windows on the World! Waterford Crystal! Bottle face! Goggle-headed freak!”

And of course, while she’s saying all this, I end up just sitting there with my head down, waiting for it to pass.

She goes, “Harry Potter! Dame Edna Average! Ryan Goggs! Raiders of the Lost Dork! Get Him to the Geek! Four Eyes Only! The Dork Knight! Clark Bent! Hector the Specktor with Eyes Like a Projector! Spectraprint!”

“Honor,” Sorcha goes, “stop picking on your father.”

But Honor continues on: “The Double Glazing Man! Professor Speckledork! Mr See It All!”

And what I’m suddenly thinking about is all the stick that I gave Fionn over the years for basically having the eyesight of an old age pensioner. And, not for the first time in the last few years, I’m forced to confront the fact that Honor might well be the universe’s revenge on me for being a dick to people.

“Your old dear has told you to leave me alone,” I go, “and yet you’re continuing it on.”

Honor’s like, “So?”

And I’m there, “I’m just saying. You’ve got to possibly ask yourself what kind of a person that makes you.”

Which is weak – I realise it straight away.

She literally laughs in my face and then quickly picks up her stroke again. “Should Have Gone to Specsavers!” she goes. “Mister Mole! The Unseeing Eyes! Specs Express! Specs Appeal! The Blind Leading the Blonde! Doctor Specktagoggles, Head of Nerdology at UC Very Little!

And then she suddenly stops.

"I think I'm all out," she goes. "Now we can proceed with my demands."

ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE