Sorcha’s old man seems weirdly pleased with himself – why, I’ve no idea. He’s standing at the island in the kitchen, slicing up a stilton-infused Leberwurst from the craft butcher’s in Donnybrook Fair, while humming a little tune to himself that I don’t instantly recognize?
I’m like, “What are you sounding so pleased about?” because it’s actually annoying me.
“Oh, it’s just my way of getting through the day,” he has the actual nerve to go, then he goes back to humming, slicing pieces off the sausage, then eating them off the knife.
Honor walks in. She grabs a can of Diet Coke from the fridge and goes, “I’ve just told Taylor Swift that she’s a sad cow, Niall Horan that he can’t sing and Katy Perry that she’s an actual mutt without make-up. Seriously, what did we do before Twitter?”
I’m like, “That’s not a bad question,” because it’d definitely make you think.
She's there, "I mean, how did we get at these people?"
“I’m not sure we even did,” I go. “A lot of them got away with murder.”
Sorcha suddenly arrives into the kitchen then with a collapsible white board, a black shorpie and a look of resolve on her face that I haven’t seen since she led the UCD Philosophical Society’s morch on the American embassy to protest against the invasion of either Iran or Iraq – who even remembers now?
She goes, “Now, you can stop rolling your eyes, Honor, and you can do the same, Ross. You heard what Siofra said. The Honour Board is an essential port of the process.”
Honor turns to me and goes, “I think your wife is menopausal.”
Sorcha’s old man remains surprisingly calm. It’s usually lines like that – about his precious daughter – that tip him over the edge.
“So, to begin on a positive note,” Sorcha goes, scribbling on the board, “you put your breakfast dishes into the dishwasher three mornings this week . . .”
She didn’t, by the way. I did it for her.
“So that’s six points,” Sorcha goes, her voice all teachery. “But against that, I’m sorry to say, you tried to shove that girl down the escalators in Dundrum Town Centre.”
"Er, correction," Honor goes, fighting her corner, in fairness to her, "I tried to trip her. She was wearing a One Direction T-shirt in my defence."
See, she can be very funny – if you're not the one on the other end of it, that is.
“So I’m deducting two points for that,” Sorcha goes, scribbling away on the board. “Which leaves you with four. And I’m also taking away two points for saying, ‘Sit down, take the weight off the ground,’ to me when I walked into your room last night.”
Honor’s there, “I can’t help it if you’re a total porker.”
“It’s called baby weight, Honor, and it’s very difficult to get rid of.”
Honor’s like, “Especially when you’re eating a Toblerone a day.”
We're talking lorge ones as well, by the way – Honor could make that point as well, but she doesn't.
“Which leaves you with two points,” Sorcha goes. “And according to the pay scale that I’ve decided upon, that entitles you to . . . one hundred euros pocket money this week.”
Honor looks at her – I think it's a word? – agog?
She’s like, “One hundred euros? How am I supposed to live on a hundred euros?”
I always get a little teary when I hear Honor come out with lines that I used as a kid. Seeing your own reflection in your children is one of life’s great miracles.
Sorcha goes, “One hundred euros should be more than sufficient for a girl of seven to live on. We put a roof over your head, we pro- vide you with food and we pay your mobile phone bills. From now on, everything after that is a bonus that has to be earned. And if you speak to me again like that, there’s going to be a further two-point deduction.”
Sorcha’s old man decides to stick his ginormous hooter in then. He’s there, “Pardon me for saying it, but one hundred euros is still an obscene amount of money to give to a child of her age. Will I tell you what I’m expected to live on since my bankruptcy?”
"No," Honor instantly goes, "because giving a fock what you think about anything is not actually in my job description?"
Sorcha flips. “Right,” she goes, drawing a huge zero on the white board. “That’s zero points, Honor, because I’m taking two away for speaking to your grandfather like that. And zero points means zero pocket money!”
Honor goes, “Oh, yeah, like you can bribe me into becoming a good little girl,” and she laughs, which she can well afford to do, because she’s still got that two grand my old man gave her for Christmas. She goes, “You’re actually a pack of saps,” and then she storms off upstairs, to go back to trolling celebrities on Twitter.
Sorcha turns to me then. She's there, "I know you think I'm being horsh, Ross, but her psychiatrist said we're doing our children a disservice if we let them grow up thinking that rewards are something they're automatically entitled to?"
That’s, like, crazy talk, but I say nothing, except, “Yeah, no, you seem to know what you’re doing, Sorcha,” and I go to leave the room to go and check on the triplets, who are having their afternoon nap.
“Hang on, Ross,” Sorcha suddenly goes – this is, like, totally out of the blue. “I need to talk to you about something else,” and then I cop her stealing a little look at her old man – like she’s expecting him to give her strength to say what she’s about to say.
I’m there, “We’re not bringing in the Honour Board for me as well, are we?”
If only it was just that.
She goes, “Ross, I’ve been thinking.”
I’m there, “Thinking? Babes, I’m not sure I like the sound of this.”
Her old man continues slicing the sausage, I notice, with a massive grin on his face.
Sorcha goes, “I don’t think you have it in you to ever stay loyal to me, Ross.”
I’m there, “Look, if it’s about that text message you found, you can chillaz. I’m going to stay loyal to you this time. That was a promise I made.”
“Ross, you’ve said that how many times before?”
“The difference is that this time I actually mean it.”
“You’ve said that hundreds of times as well. I’ve given up hoping that you’ll ever change.”
I’m there, “So what are you saying?”
She looks at her old man again. He nods at her, as if to say, ‘Be strong now.’
She goes, “I want you to have a vasectomy.”
I’m like, “Excuse me?” because I’m in genuine shock here.
She goes, “A vasectomy, Ross,” and she says it like it’s nothing.
I’m there, “And why would I have a vasectomy?”
It’s her old man who answers that one.
"Well," he goes, "clearly you can't be stopped from philandering, but you can be stopped from reproducing. Sorcha doesn't want you to father any more children – either with her or with anyone else."
I laugh. It’s all suddenly becoming clear to me now.
“That’s why you’ve been chopping up that sausage,” I go. “That was a message for me.”
"Oh," he suddenly goes, "I think I've hit a bit of gristle there," and he storts sawing away more, I don't know, vigorously?
I feel suddenly sick. I’m like, “Sorcha, please don’t make me do this thing.”
But she just goes, “No arguments, Ross. You’re having a vasectomy – and that’s all there is to it.”
Tomorrow: Ross marches on Lansdowne Road
Seedless in Seattle is published by Penguin Ireland
