‘The tree was definitely sourced locally, because I robbed the focking thing from outside Buck Whaley’s at, like, half five this morning’
SORCHA RINGS sounding majorly hassled. She’s cooking Christmas dinner for her old pair for the first time this year – they’ve always had us over? – and she asked me to give her a bit of a dig-out by getting one or two things, one of them being an actual tree.
“So where is it?” she goes.
She is entitled to ask, I suppose – there’s only, like, four days to go until Christmas Day.
I’m there, “Have I ever let you down?” and she’s good enough not to mention the 17 counts of adultery that are the grounds for our ongoing divorce proceedings.
She’s there, “So you got it then?”
I’m like, “Of course I got it.”
“And it’s definitely an environmentally friendly one?”
I laugh. “Er, it’s a focking tree, Sorcha. It doesn’t come more environmentally friendly than that.”
She ends up having a mini shit-fit then. “That’s not true,” she goes. “Ross, I told you to make sure you got one from a company with sustainability built into its business plan – for every tree they cut down, they plant a new one.”
“Er, yeah, I did check that, now that you mention it.”
“And?”
“It’s real good like Gielgud, baby.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, no, a hundred per cent. This crowd I went to actually plant two trees for every one they hack down.”
“Two? Well, that does sound good. And the grower was definitely committed to organic forestry, was he?”
“He definitely seemed the type, babes.”
“What do you mean, he seemed the type? I’m asking was his operation pesticide- and chemical-free.”
“Oh, definitely – they were the exact words he used when I storted hitting him with organic questions.”
“And do you know how many road miles it travelled?”
Jesus Christ.
“Okay, gimme that in layman’s terms, Sorcha.”
“I’m asking was it hauled across five counties in a CO2-belching truck?”
“No, definitely not.”
“You’re saying it was sourced locally?”
It was definitely sourced locally, because I robbed the focking thing from outside Buck Whaley’s at, like, half five this morning.
“Trust me,” I go. “This tree didn’t even travel the length of the 46A route. Anyway, sit tight, I’ll be over within the hour.”
Forty-five minutes later – good as my word – I’m pulling up outside the gaff on Newtownpork Avenue, actually genuinely excited about dressing the tree with my daughter. The precious moments of fatherhood and blahdy blahdy blah-blah.
Except when I walk into the gaff, Sorcha’s old pair are already there ahead of me. Her old man is – I don’t know if this is a word – but mulling some wine on the stove, while the old dear is heating some mince pies in the oven and the three of them are bullshitting away about the woes of the world.
Sorcha is saying that President Obama’s difficulties in getting an agreement on raising America’s debt ceiling this year shows how – oh my God – racist people still are? The girl knows her shit – there’s no denying that.
I do a bit of a throat clearance to get their attention. Sorcha seems delighted to see me. Her old dear seems neutral. Her old man – as per always – looks me up and down like he’s wondering how big a job it would be to dispose of my body.
“Merry Christmas,” I go. That’s because I’ve always been a people person.
He’s like, “It just got a lot less merry for me – I can tell you that.”
Sorcha’s there, “Dad!”
His eldest daughter was always the apple of his eye. I totally get why he thinks I’m a waste of space.
“Well, at least he remembered the tree,” he goes, copping it under my orm – be hord to miss, in fairness. “Are you going to put it up or is Sorcha going to have to spend another week asking you?”
Sorcha’s old dear tries to diffuse the tension then by going, “It’s a beautiful tree, Ross. Where did you get it?” because she’s always been a bit of a supporter of mine, despite the pretty miserable job I made of being her daughter’s husband.
“He probably stole it,” the old man goes. “A repeat of the Princess Diana incident.”
He’s talking about the time I robbed a bunch of flowers from the Diana memorial outside the British Embassy and presented them to Sorcha on what was actually one of our very first dates. She was actually made up with them until she read the little cord – “Sleep easy, Queen of our Hearts. They can’t hurt you now.”
That was, like, 14 years ago. Talk about giving a dog a bad name. I decide just to rise above it, though – the same way I used to blank out the boo-boys back in my senior cup days.
Sorcha helps me carry the tree into the living room, then we call Honor downstairs. A few seconds later, she’s standing at the door, staring at it with a look of complete and utter boredom on her face.
“Your father and I thought we might dress the tree together,” Sorcha goes. “As, like, a family?”
Honor’s there, “You called me downstairs – for this? ”
“Come on,” Sorcha goes, “get into the festive spirit! I even bought some candy canes to hang on it.”
Honor goes, “Er, lame!?” and then she goes, “Hashtag – when are you planning to get a life?” before heading back upstairs again.
So it ends up being just me and Sorcha decorating the tree, which is nice. She calls her old pair in from the kitchen for the official turning on of the lights. Sorcha flicks the switch and the two of them can’t help but be impressed. Sorcha kisses me on the cheek and tells me I’m wonderful and you can only imagine how that goes down with him.
I even give the focker a smile and a cheeky wink, then I tell them all that I’ll see them on Christmas Day.
Anyway, it’s the following day that it happens. I’m having a bit of a midweek lie-in. It’s, like, four o’clock in the afternoon when all of a sudden my mobile rings. It notice that it’s, like, Sorcha’s number. I answer it by going, “If you’re ringing to apologise for that dickhead, I told you yesterday – it doesn’t matter.”
Except it ends up being that dickhead.
“Where did you get that tree?” is his opening line. Something in his tone tells me that he’s not ready to be lied to. Then he roars it. “Where did you get that tree? Tell me right now, you little tidemark. And it better be the truth!”
I end up just blurting it out. “Look, I stole it from outside Buck Whaley’s. Although I don’t think it actually belonged to anyone? It was just, like, leaning against the railings.”
“That because somebody dumped it,” he goes – he’s, like, roaring down the phone at me, by the way. “It was full of weevils. Now Sorcha’s living room is infested with the things. And if you’ve any sense in that head of yours, you’ll steer well clear of this house this Christmas.”
rossocarroll kelly.ie, twitter.com/ rossock