Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

‘Have you heard Maxwell Motors is gone?’ I knew she was upset about something

‘Have you heard Maxwell Motors is gone?’ I knew she was upset about something. Her old man bought her first Mini Cooper One in there – so did half the dads in South Dublin

SO I BUY MY daughter flowers. And Sorcha’s not a happy rabbit, of course.

Thinks I’m spoiling her. But if a father can’t buy his daughter a humongous bunch of roses to celebrate the wrapping of the opening scene of her new movie, you’d have to ask yourself, what kind of world are we suddenly living in? I open the door of her trailer and it’s like the opening scene from an Indiana Jones movie? Twenty or 30 people have obviously had the exact same idea. I’m literally chopping my way through palm fronds and all sorts before I finally find her at her dressing table, her mother at her shoulder, telling her that she realises what an exciting time it is for her, but the important thing is that she keeps her two feet on the ground.

She used to say the same shit to me, back when I was kicking points for Castlerock College and working my way through the female population of South Dublin like glandular fever. “Don’t listen to your old dear,” I go, popping out from behind a bunch of, possibly, geraniums. “It’s life, Honor – you’ve got to grip it and rip it. That’d be my basic psychology.” “Daddy!” she goes. She runs over to me and, like, air-kisses me? Both cheeks as well. Hero worship doesn’t even come close to describing the way my daughter feels about me.

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“I brought you a few Austin Powers,” I go, “although looking around, I needn’t have bothered my orse. It’s like giving – what’s the phrase – sand to the Eskimos?”

“They’re all from well-wishers,” she goes, smiling sweetly. “Mom is being – oh my God – so lame, by the way? Hashtag – what is her issue?” I look at Sorcha. She’s just, like, shaking her head.

“It looks very much to me like a case of the old green-eyed monster,” I go. “The only time I ever bought your mother flowers was Valentine’s Day – around the time you were conceived, actually. They were delivered by Tesco Online. It was about a quarter of the price of what the focking florist wanted. She cried for two-and-a-half hours.” Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Sorcha just, like, staring at me? Basically wanting me dead.

“That’s lollers,” Honor goes. She’s always been a big fan of my comedy. “Oh my God, that is so lollers.” I hand her the flowers and she gives them a bit of a sniff. There’s a hell of a hack coming off them, in fairness. “Well, I heart them, Daddy. They’re my actual favourites?” There’s suddenly, like, a knock on the door of the trailer? “Okay, Ms O’Carroll-Kelly,” a voice outside goes, “we’re rolling in two minutes.” Like I said, they’re finishing the opening scene of Mom, They Said They’d Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoes today, the bit where Zara Mesbur – Honor’s character – is walking to Montessori with her old dear, then she suddenly gets upset and mentions that she heard on the radio that the crisis in the American subprime mortgage morket could have a contagion effect on the rest of the world’s economy. And her mother tells her not to worry – it’s not going to affect people like them.

Honor’s there, “I better go. Can’t keep my public waiting,” and off she heads.

Sorcha decides to have it out with me then. “Ross,” she goes, “the whole point of allowing her to do this movie was so that it might act as, like, an allegory?” I’m like, “Whoa! An allegory? That brings me right back to my school days. I didn’t know what it was then either.”

“It’s a lesson, Ross. I hoped this whole experience would help her adjust to the changed economic circumstances in which we’re all having to live? But look at all these flowers, Ross. How are they going to teach her to manage her expectations?” “Manage her expectations? Sorcha, she’s only five.”

Sorcha turns her head away and stares sadly into the distance. She’s like, “Have you heard Maxwell Motors is gone?” I knew she was upset about something. Her old man bought her first Mini Cooper One in there. So did half the dads in South Dublin. I just shrug, though. See, I’ve always been a glass half full kind of goy? I’m there, “She’s a good 10-and-a-bit-years away from getting her first cor, Sorcha. There’ll be other motor dealerships by then. You mork my words.” She sort of, like, loses it then?

“All I’m saying is that it’s important she realises it’s suddenly a different world to the one in which you and I were fortunate enough to grow up. The old certainties are gone, Ross.”

“They might be back. My old man certainly seems to think they will be. He says we haven’t seen the last of the Celtic Tiger.”

“We have. And I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing? What worries me is that Honor might start to believe that all of this success she’s enjoying is going to last.” She bursts into tears then. I end up being the hero of the hour by offering her one of my world-famous hugs. I just look at her with the old cannons outstretched. I’m like, “Come on. One size fits all, baby . . .”

She feels much better after that. And a few consoling words from me, of course. “You saw her yourself on the Late Late a few weeks ago. People love her. I’ve a feeling me and you are going to be living off her earnings for a long, long time to come.” I help her dry her eyes, then we wander outside and down to Merrion Square, my orm around her shoulder. She might be divorcing me, but, well, you know.

They’re, like, already filming by the time we get there? Honor’s bang on form. You can actually see it. The director, camera dudes, all the crew and the rest of the cast, they’re all watching her, totally focking spellbound.

She’s walking along Merrion Square, with her little straw boater on, hand in hand with her mother – her, like, screen mother? – when all of a sudden she stops, looks up at her with the big Sacred Hort of Jesus eyes and goes, “But Mom, what even is securitisation?” The mother looks down at her. She’s like, “It’s nothing for you to worry your little head about.”

That’s when Honor suddenly stops, turns and looks at the director. “The line,” she goes, “is pretty little head. Er, we spent all day last Thursday and Friday doing this and she still doesn’t know the line. Hashtag – why am I working with focking amateurs?”

rossocarrollkelly.ie. twitter.com/rossock