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'The neighbour is power-washing the patio again, he's supposed to be, like, working from home?'

Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: His wife moves the cursor on his work laptop so it doesn’t go to sleep

So Ronan spins out to the gaff on, like, Tuesday morning.

He's like, "Stordee, Rosser?" except he ends up having to shout it?

Yeah, no, Toni Loscher next door is power-washing the wooden patio again and it sounds like a Boeing 747 taking off.

I’m, like, sitting in the gorden, trying to watch the second Lions Test on the laptop and scribbling a few notes in my famous tactics book, except I can barely hear myself think.


“What are you watching,” Ro goes, “the rubby?”

I'm like, "Trying to, except that noise is doing my - literally? - head in."

“Jaysus, how big’s he’s power-washer, Rosser?”

"All I know is the patio is the size of our house. Seriously, Ro, life in Killiney is just one big deck-measuring contest."


"That's been going on for, like, two hours now. It'll probably go on for another two or three as well. I wouldn't mind but the dude is supposed to be, like, working from home?"

“He’s what?”

"Yeah, no, Gwen - the wife - moves the cursor on his laptop every five minutes, so the thing doesn't go into sleep mode. I've half a mind to ring AIB and tell them what their staff get up to when they're supposably working remotely."

“You caddent do that, Rosser. That’s touting.”

“Dude, he built a treehouse for the grandkids last week. Hammering and sawing from eight o’clock in the morning until four in the afternoon, from Monday to Friday. The week before that, he spent three days in the gorden with the hedge-trimmer - and if you think the power-washer is loud, you’d want to hear that thing.”

Honor steps out of the gaff then - not a happy bunny at being woken at this hour of the morning. She's like, "What the actual fock?" again having to shout to be heard. "Oh, hi, Ronan."

“Howiya, Hodor?” Ronan goes. “Head-wrecking, idn’t it?”

Honor’s there, “I wouldn’t mind, but he’s supposedly working from home. I’ve a good mind to ring AIB.”

“You doatunt want to be a rat but, Hodor.”

“I’m on my holidays, Ro. And I’m up at - what time is it, Dad?”

“Nearly midday,” I go.

She’s like, “It’s a focking disgrace!”

Ro goes, “The both of yous, wait hee-or,” and he heads out to his cor.

Honor’s there, “Is he going to threaten him?”

And I’m like, “Hopefully, yeah. I’ve got a lot of big calls to make in terms of selection for the third Test.”

Except he doesn’t threaten him. He arrives back two minutes later carrying a drone.

“I was godda fly her off Killiney Hiddle this arthur noon,” he goes. “I’ll send her up - hab a look is the sham neardy fidished.”

So Ronan whips out his phone and launches the drone and pretty soon we’re all sitting there watching an aerial shot of the Loscher gorden.

“Jaysus,” Ronan goes, “the size of he’s bleaten swibben poolt. Does he ebber invite yous oaber?”

I’m there, “Not since Honor crashed a porty there last year and puked half a bottle of Peach Schnapps into the thing, no.”

“It’s some bleaten size of a deck alreet,” he goes. “Shurden that’ll take him alt day.”

We watch Toni Loscher suddenly look up at the camera.

“Ah, boddicks,” Ro goes, “Ine arthur being rumbled.”

Honor's like, "It's fine. The Killiney and Dalkey Concerned Residents Association do regular drone flyovers to make sure no one's hired a bouncy castle."

But Toni suddenly smiles, lifts the hose and aims a jet of water at the drone, sending it back over the fence. It falls to the ground in front of us with a dull splat.

“The doorty-looken doortboord,” Ronan goes. “Hodor, get me the number for AIB.”

I’m there, “I thought we said we didn’t tout.”

“Dudn’t mathor what I said,” he goes, Googling the number. “The sham’s arthur brigging down me drowunt. I’ve the number for Head Office hee-or. What depeertment did you say he woorks in?”

Honor’s there, “I think you should probably ring Human Resources,” because she’s very protective of her brother.

Anyway, Ronan eventually gets through to someone and he spills the beans on Toni Loscher and his power-washer. And the treehouse. And the wife moving the cursor on the laptop to make it look like he's actually doing shit? And while he's grassing the dude up, Honor is just, like, staring at him with her mouth open.

When he hangs up, he goes, “Ine soddy, Hodor, I stand by evoddy thing I said about touting - it’s just that brigging down me drowunt was a decladation of war.”

Honor's there, "I don't give a fock if he gets sacked. You've just given me an - oh my God - amazing idea."

I’m like, “An amazing idea - in terms of?”

“A way of making money,” she goes. “Okay, they’re saying when this, like, pandemic is over, most people will never go back to working full-time in the office again, right?”

I'm there, "Yeah, no, your old dear says she's going to spend three days of the week working from home - again, that word, supposably? "

"That's my point," Honor goes. "How will these companies know that their employees are actually working and not ripping the piss like Toni Loscher. And - let's be honest - Mom."

Yeah, no, she's in Dundrum right now, doing the big Morks and Spencer grocery shop on LinkedIn's dime.

“So how would you make muddy out of it?” Ronan goes.

Honor’s like, “The most valuable commodity in the world today is, like, information, right? So we buy information at a certain price and we sell it at a higher price.”

“So you’re talking about paying people… to, like, rat each other out?” I go.

She's like, "I'm talking about big money as well - like, a grand for anyone who can prove that someone isn't working when they should be? Then we sell that information to their employer."

“Bethor still,” Ronan goes, “we get compadies to subscribe to the seervice for an annual fee.”

And all I can do, while I’m listening to this conversation over the racket of Toni Loscher’s power-washer, is smile and think to myself, ‘I created these two amazing people.’

Ronan goes, “If we’re godda do it properdy, Hodor, we need to talk to the genius of the famidy.”

"You're not talking about him?" Honor goes, flicking her thumb at me.

Ronan laughs - it’s a good job I’m not sensitive.

“Of course I bleaten doatunt,” he goes. “No, we need to talk to Cheerlie.”