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Like the rest of you, I’m guessing, it’s all the missed occasions that I can’t help but think about. We’re talking birthdays. We’re talking weddings. We’re talking anniversaries.
The first Sunday in September would normally be the day of our annual Last Borbecue of Summer, when tradition demands that I put on my hilarious “I Like My Pork Pulled” apron and grill up a feast for all of our friends.
None of that this year, of course. Instead of a borbecue, we end up having, like, a lunchtime summit with my old man and Sorcha’s old dear to tell them about the upcoming change in their living arrangements.
“You’re throwing us out?” my old man goes.
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I’m like, “Yeah, no, that’s about the measure of it alright. Hit the bricks, the pair of you.”
You can't throw us out, Dude! There's a ban on evictions!
Sorcha's there, "We're not throwing you out, Chorles. It's just that our teenage daughter got absolutely obliterated drunk last week . . ."
"What," Sorcha's old dear goes, "and you're blaming us for the way your daughter has turned out?"
Sorcha’s there, “Her grandparents have, like, swapped portners. It must be very confusing for her – I’m talking morally – to know that her Grandma Lalor and her Granddad O’Carroll-Kelly are, well, you know . . .”
“Taking a turn among the cabbages,” I go.
Sorcha's old dear is like, "But where are we going to go?"
Sorcha’s there, “What about Brittas Bay?”
“Brittas Bay? What, the holiday home?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t expect an animal to live in that place. And, besides, it’s rented out at the moment.”
“No, it’s not – you only rent it out for the winter months. You’ve always kept it free in the summer in case you and Dad wanted to go down there.”
“Well, unfortunately, your father has the keys.”
“I have a spare set.”
“Sorcha, it’s cold, damp and miserable in that place. You can’t possibly expect us to spend the winter in there?”
The old man bursts into song then.
He's like, "The snow is snowing and the wind is blowing / But I can weather the storm! / What do I care how much it may storm? / For I've got my love to keep me warm! Tony Bennett, ladies and gentlemen!"
Honor walks into the kitchen then. Everyone just stares at her in silence. She’s there, “Okay, what’s going on? Why do I suddenly feel like Dad talking to the parish priest in his borbecue apron?”
Yeah, no, that happened last year. He popped in unannounced and I forgot I was wearing it. I couldn’t understand the funny looks he was giving me.
“Now try not to be too upset,” the old man goes, “but your grandmother and I are moving out.”
Honor’s like, “Why?”
"Well, your mother seems to think that your seeing the two of us together may have triggered your decision to, em, experiment with alcohol."
“I didn’t drink a naggin of vodka because of you. I drank a naggin of vodka because I’m a sociopath.”
“There you are, Sorcha! Absolutely nothing to worry about! And yet here you are, about to deprive her of her grandparents. I can only imagine the guilt she’s going to feel –”
“Can you pay me my pocket money by direct debit?” Honor goes.
“I’m, em, sure that can be arranged. Although I don’t know what kind of wifi they’ve got down there in the wilds of –”
“Great,” Honor goes, cutting him off. “I’ll see you when they find a vaccine,” and she goes back upstairs to her room.
The old man and Sorcha's old dear pack up their shit, then half an hour later, we're heading south on the N11 – me and my old man in his cor, and Sorcha and her old dear in, like, ours?
He's going, "Admirable of your daughter to hide her sadness like that. You must be so proud of her, Kicker."
I’m like, “No, she’s a focking nightmare. Dude, are you absolutely sure this is what you want?”
“I’m sure it’ll be a wonderful adventure, Ross! You know, I haven’t spent a night this far south since the great Gerald Kean’s famous Louis XVI birthday bash!”
"I'm talking about you and her. She's just so, I don't know, different from the old dear. She's sober, for storters – and she still has her original facial features. How do you know she's the right woman for you?"
“I don’t. All I know is that she’s the right woman for this phase of my –”
He suddenly stops. Because we’ve pulled up outside the Lalors’ holiday home. I don’t know what kind of a pad he was expecting, but it’s pretty obvious that he’s underwhelmed. It’s, like, a two-bedroom bungalow with a boarded-up window and an old sofa dumped in the front gorden.
I can tell he's suddenly nostalgic for Foxrock.
“It’s even more ghastly than I thought it was,” Sorcha’s old dear goes, her voice cracking with emotion.
Sorcha’s there, “We’ll clean it up,” as she turns the key in the door. “Oh my God, we’ll have a painting porty!”
But the biggest shock of all still awaits us. Sorcha's old dear pushes the living room door. And there, sitting around watching Netflix, and smoking what smells very much to me like hash, are three random student-type dudes.
“Who the hell are you?” Sorcha’s old dear goes.
One of the dudes is like, “We might ask you the same thing. How the fock did you get in here?”
She's there, "I am the owner of this house!"
The dude’s there, “Nice to meet you – we’re your tenants.”
They’re drinking cans in the middle of the afternoon. I’m not judging them. I’m just saying I’m the one who’s suddenly nostalgic.
Sorcha’s old dear goes, “Tenants? But you were supposed to be gone months ago!”
“We were locked down here,” one of the other dudes goes – seriously, he’s holding a spliff the size of a rolling pin.
The old man is like, “Well, the lockdown is over, so you can sling your bloody well hooks, all of you!”
“You can’t throw us out, Dude! There’s a ban on evictions!”
“A ban? On evictions? I’ve never heard of anything so preposterous!”
"It was an actual thing," Sorcha goes. "My friend Amie with an ie's parents had trouble getting people out of their second home in Schull. But I'm pretty sure it's, like over now?"
The dude opens a can and goes, "Best of luck trying to get us out."