Sorcha is up to pretty much 90. It’s the night of Honor’s debs and we’re all waiting for her date, Iarlaith – yeah, no, a girl – to arrive. Sorcha’s old pair are here, as well as my old man, then 10 or 11 of Sorcha’s friends and half the Vico Road.
Me and Sorcha are in the kitchen, putting caviar and crème fraîche vol-au-vents on to plates, and she’s saying she still wishes that Honor would change her mind and wear her old debs dress.
“A friend of mine from college posted an old photograph on Instagram of her in her debs dress,” she goes, “and then her daughter wearing it 30 years later! It got, like, thousands of likes.”
I’m there, “Well, it’s not about that, Sorcha.”
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“I know it’s not about that, Ross. I’m just making the point.”
“Fashions change – that’s all I’m saying?”
“Says the man who’s been wearing chinos and boat shoes since 1995.”
Ouch.
I’m like, “Quality never goes out of style, Sorcha.”
And she’s there, “Yeah, well, I ran a boutique in the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre that Trinny Woodall described as a must-visit. I don’t need you to stort lecturing me about fashion.”
“Okay, maybe calm down, Babes.”
She’s there, “I stayed up all night altering the dress so it’d fit her. She’d look amazing in it.”
And I’m like, “She told you to shove it up your orse – twice, in fact.”
“I still hope she’ll have a change of hort. Tiffany blue has always suited her.”
“I don’t think she’s going to have a change of hort, Sorcha.”
She goes, “Have you seen the dress she bought?”
And I’m there, “No, it was in a Brown Thomas bag – and she went straight up to her room with it.”
She’s like, “I tried to sneak into her room for a peek, but she had the door locked.”
And that’s when the doorbell ends up ringing. Sorcha jumps like she’s had an electric shock.
“That’ll be Iarlaith and her parents,” she goes. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!”
I’m like, “Sorcha, you need to chillax.”
So we answer the door and – yeah, no – we put on a bit of a show.
I’m like, “Welcome to our humble abode,” even though it’s humungous and worth six mills.
“Oh! My! God!” Sorcha goes, looking Iarlaith up and down. “Your dress is stunning!”
I’m there, “I’m Ross, by the way.”
And Iarlaith’s old dear goes, “I’m Caoimhe and this is my husband, Ken.”
I’m there, “And you must be Iarlaith.”
She’s one of those people who always knows the right thing to say – a bit like me, in fairness
She’s a looker. Honor clearly takes after her old man in that regord.
“And you’re Ross,” she goes. “Honor talks about you – oh my God – all the time!”
I’m there, “Did you hear that, Sorcha? Honor talks about me all the time!”
“These are for you,” the girl goes – and she hands Sorcha a bunch of flowers.
She has nothing for me, but it’s not a major deal. I certainly don’t mention it.
I’m there, “Anyway, come in,” and we lead them down the hallway to the livingroom, where the porty is in full swing.
The old man goes, “Hello there! Iarlaith, is it?”
And Iarlaith’s like, “And you must be Chorles! I was so sorry to hear about your wife.”
She’s one of those people who always knows the right thing to say – a bit like me, in fairness.
Sorcha’s old dear collars her then to admire her dress, leaving me, Sorcha and the old man alone with Iarlaith’s old pair.
“This is all very, um, exciting, isn’t it?” the old man goes – can’t help himself. “Of course, I voted for it – and so did Fionnuala.”
I’m like, “Voted for what?”
He goes, “Marriage equality, Ross.”
And I’m there, “They’re not getting hitched. They’re going to their debs. Jesus, can everyone just, like, chill out?”
My phone suddenly beeps. Yeah, no, it’s a text message – from Honor. It’s like, “Can you tell HER to come upstairs please?”
I turn to Sorcha and I’m like, “Honor wants to see you.”
She goes, “Oh my God! Is it for a sneak look at the dress?”
I’m there, “She didn’t go into detail – just wants to see you.”
So Sorcha heads off and the old man – he’s such an embarrassment – mentions that he often drank in Bortley Dunne’s back in the day.
No one knows what to do with this information. But a minute or two later, Sorcha is back, grinning like she sat on borbed wire and is waiting for the pain to hit.
I’m there, “Well?”
And she’s like, “She said that whatever she bought wasn’t really working – and she wanted to know if she could have my dress.”
I’m like, “Whoa! Plot twist!”
Sorcha fills Iarlaith’s old pair in on the story.
She goes, “It’s, like, Tiffany blue,” whipping out her phone and scrolling through her photos. “I wore it for my debs in, like, 1998?” and she hands the phone to Iarlaith’s old dear.
“Oh, it’s a beautiful dress,” the woman goes.
Sorcha’s like, “Thanks – even though Ross ruined the photo by giving me bunny ears.”
Iarlaith’s old dear – Caoimhe – shows it to Ken for his approval.
“Oh, yes,” he goes, “very nice.”
Sorcha’s like, “I’m going to post it on Instagram beside a picture of Honor wearing the same dress!”
And then – talk of the devil – I suddenly hear her coming down the stairs and I go, “Here she comes!” and every conversation in the room – literally? – stops.
We’re all, like, staring at the door, then it suddenly opens and in she walks.
Sorcha’s like, “Oh! My! God!”
And there’s, like, genuine gasps in the room.
Iarlaith goes, “Honor! Oh my God! Like, wow!”
Yeah, no, my daughter looks absolutely stunning.
I’m there, “Is that my tux?”
I haven’t worn the thing since I crashed the Leinster Rugby awards dinner in 2022 to see Dan Sheehan – a bit of a protégé of mine – pick up the Young Player of the Year award.
Sorcha again goes, “Oh! My God!” then she bursts into tears. And I don’t know whether they’re tears of happiness or the other kind until my eyes are suddenly drawn to Honor’s pocket square. And even though I wouldn’t be an expert on, like, colours, I’m pretty sure you would call it Tiffany blue.
“Honor,” Sorcha goes, “did you cut a hole in my debs dress?”
But Honor’s just like, “Come on, Iarlaith. Let’s go. I want everyone to see us arrive.”
