I’ve always been a big believer that, like, timing is everything? I’m saying that as someone who was poised to become the greatest outhalf of his generation until Ronan O’Focking Gara came along
'YOU DID WHAT?” Sorcha goes.
Hey, it’s my fault. I made the mistake of telling her about the runner that me, Oisinn and JP did from Eddie Rockets in Mickey Marbh the night of the Italy match. Should have kept the old Von Trapp shut. But I end up just shrugging anyway.
“We left without paying,” I go. “Sorcha, it’s hordly a biggie.” And it’s not – compared to some of the things I’ve got up to during a Six Nations weekend. Then again, you have to remember, Sorcha was head of the Justice and Peace group in Mount Anville – she’d regord that kind of behaviour as very much working class.
“I just don’t understand why you would eat a meal in a restaurant,” she goes, “and then leave without paying.” Told you.
I’m there, “Sorcha, you’re still technically married to a man who was a Leinster schools rugby legend. I can’t believe you’re actually saying that to me.” She just shakes her head. “I’m going to drive up to Stillorgan later on and pay – what did the three of you have?”
I’m there, “But I don’t want you to pay.” “Why not?”
“Because then it won’t have been a runner.”
“But, Ross, they know you up there. What if they call the Gords?”
“What, over three Classics with bacon cheese fries and a round of focking malts. I think the Feds have got bigger fish to fry, babes – even on this side of the city.”
“That means you’re never going to be able to eat there again.”
“No, it doesn’t. I’ll just go to the one in Dundrum – or even Blackrock – until the actual heat’s off.”
This conversation takes place on her doorstep, by the way. And, for a minute, roysh, I think she’s not going to let me in. I’m supposedly taking Honor out for an hour or two – one of my midweek unsupervised access days.
“I have serious doubts,” she goes, “about what kind of a role model you are to her,” but then she opens the door and into the gaff I step.
The sight that greets me, I have to tell you, rocks me back on my literally heels. The hallway is, like, full of boxes. And not just the hallway, roysh, but the kitchen too. We’re talking maybe thirty or forty of them? All stacked on top of each other. And Honor is just, like, ripping them open and pulling stuff out of them and at the same time squealing like a rat in shit.
I go, “What the fock?”
Sorcha, behind me, goes, “It’s all, like, free stuff?”
I’m there, “Free stuff? What kind of free stuff?”
“Clothes. All these, like, companies and designers sent them to the studio for Honor.” She’s presumably talking about the studio that’s making the movie of the old dear’s misery lit novel, Mom, They Said They’d Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoes.
Honor’s pulling back at the flaps of boxes, rhyming off brands like most kids her age say nursery rhymes. She’s like, “Chloé, Cyrillus, Baby Dior, Stella, Oopsy Daisy, Tartine et Chocolat, Lily Sid, Junior Gaultier . . .” I’m there going, “Whoa, whoa, whoa – back up the hord drive. Why are all these people sending Honor free clothes?”
“Because they all want her to be seen in their labels,” Sorcha goes. “That’s how huge this movie is going to be, Ross. And how big a star our daughter is going to be!” Honor’s there, “Don’t bother talking to him, he’s so lame,” referring to obviously me, then she holds up a pair of pink wellies, lets another squeal out of her and goes, “Oh! My God! Excuse me for carrying on like George Clooney just walked in – but mini Hunters?”
Sorcha, like Honor, is literally in her element. I think this is pretty much how she envisaged motherhood was going to be. She goes, “Oh my God, Honor, they would so go well with your Little White Dress – as in, the Monnalisa one?”
“Oh! My God!” Honor goes. “Festival cool!” There’s suddenly, like, a ring at the door. Sorcha asks me to get it, so I leave them to it. I manage to pick my way back through the maze of boxes, clothes and shoes of every shape and colour, and somehow find the front door again.
I open it, roysh, and standing there is a woman who I straight away recognise as the social worker who called into Sorcha’s euro discount store a few weeks ago, claiming to have received a complaint that Honor was at risk of, like, poverty? She goes, “Hello, Ross,” and I end up just laughing – pretty much in her face. Because I suddenly realise that this is obviously the follow-up home visit she said she’d be making. And what a focking day to pick.
“Come in,” I go, sounding all welcoming. She’s not exactly a looker – I have to say that. I’d say her dog fantasises about other legs when he’s humping hers. “Sorcha, it’s that social worker from a few weeks ago – just double-checking that our daughter’s not at risk of, like, storving to death!” This, the woman decides to ignore. I’m sure she must take shit from parents all the time – there’s probably fock-all original that I can hit her with.
Although, judging from her expression, the sight that greets her when she pushes the door of the kitchen is new – at least to her. Sorcha and Honor are sitting on the kitchen floor, which is just, like, strewn with midis and maxis, ballet flats and kitten heels, and coats and ponchos and hats of every focking shape and colour.
Sorcha’s goes, “That Armani tutu will go so well with your pink Cath Kidston tank – the one with, like, the elephant on?” and Honor’s there, “And this Hello Kitty tee is – oh my God – made to go with my pink beret!” I’m there, “Does that look like a kid who’s at risk of, like, storving to death?” The social worker ends up having to agree. No option. She must feel like a total tool. “Er, look,” she goes, “whoever made the report, I think it’s pretty clear to me now that they were being at best mischievous and at worst malicious.” Honest to God – the kind of ugly that’d have you knotting your bedsheets together to escape out the focking window if you ever had the misfortune to wake up next to her.
“Well,” I go, loving the sudden power, “maybe you’ll think twice in future before making accusations based on unanimous tip-offs.” She’s there, “Well, I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” I’ve always been a big believer in the proverb that, like, timing is everything? And I’m saying that as someone who was poised to become the greatest outhalf of his generation until Ronan O’Focking Gara came along.
I open to the door to let her out and there’s, like, a bean Gorda standing on the focking doorstep. “Ross O’Carroll-Kelly?” she goes.
I’m like, “The one and only,” because it’s a thing I always say.
And she goes, “I’d like to talk to you about some stolen food items.”