So – yeah, no – we’re in the cor, on the way to the airport, to collect Honor, who’s coming home from her Leaving Cert holiday in, believe it or not, Magaluf.
Sorcha goes, “I hope she had a nice time.”
I’m there, “I’m sure she did.”
She’s like, “I’d love if she met a nice boy.”
READ MORE
And I’m there, “Hmmm,” knowing that boys are the furthest slash furtherest thing from her mind.
She goes, “What does that mean?”
I’m like, “Nothing.”
“You said ‘hmmm’ with an actual tone.”
“I’m just saying, I don’t know, maybe she likes girls.”
“Do you know something?”
“No, I’m just putting it out there as a possibility.”
“Well, that would be okay, wouldn’t it?”
“Of course it’d be okay.”
“I had – oh my God – loads of gay friends in UCD.”
“Yes, you may have mentioned it once or twice over the years.”
“Anyway, what are you doing next Friday?”
“Getting hammered in The Bridge – same as every Friday.”
“Well, next Friday, you’re not. I’m throwing a surprise dinner porty for our daughter.”
“Any pacific reason?”
“It’s the day the Leaving Cert results come out.”
“Right.”
“And I’ve booked the Jonathan Swift Room in The Ivy for everyone. My parents, your dad, her godparents, a few friends.”
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“Is it not a bit premature? We don’t even know what she got yet in terms of, like, results?”
“Oh my God, Ross, do you have, like, no faith in our daughter?”
“No, I’m her biggest fan. Is the deposit refundable?”
“I can’t believe you just asked that.”
She obviously gets it from your side of the family
— Sorcha
We’re about to take the airport roundabout when Sorcha decides to ring her.
She’s like, “Hey, Honor! Have you landed? You’re at the carousel? Is everything okay? You sound–. Nothing. Are you sure everything’s–? Fine, I was just asking. We really missed–.”
But Honor’s already hung up.
“Oh my God,” she goes. “She sounds drunk.”
I actually laugh.
She’s like, “Do you think that’s funny?”
I’m there, “What, you didn’t drink on your Leaving Cert holiday?”
“No, I didn’t,” she goes, “because I was on antibiotics for my stress-related back acne, which I was trying to clear up in time for the debs. Ross, I’m serious. I think you should have a conversation with Honor about her drinking.”
I’m like, “Why me?”
She’s there, “Because she obviously gets it from your side of the family.”
I’m like, “Are you referring to my old dear?”
She goes, “Yes – amongst others.”
I’m there, “I suppose my old man is murder for the sauce as well. I’m just lucky that it seems to skip a generation.”
“Are you serious?” she goes. “Ross, you went on the piss when Devin Toner got five stors on The Restaurant.”
“He’s a friend, Sorcha. We were celebrating.”
“He wasn’t even with you.”
“Well, he was invited. And he liked all of my posts on Instagram.”
“You were missing for three days.”
“Look, when your team has lost three European finals and two semi-finals in five years, you’ll celebrate any win you can get.”
“I’m just making the point, Ross, that if there is a genetic component to her drinking, then I think you owe it to her to have that conversation.”
When we get to the airport, Sorcha doesn’t move from her seat. Which means I’m the one going inside to welcome her home.
I’m like, “Fine, whatever – I’ll talk to her,” and I get out of the cor and head inside.
I think you’re a bit of a secret studier – you get <i>that</i> from <i>her</i> side of the family
— Ross
Five minutes later, Honor comes wobbling through the arrivals doors and – yeah, no – she’s mashed all right.
I watch her saying goodbye to the other girls. Arranging the Leaving Cert holiday is her second-last act as head girl – the debs being the last – and you can almost see the tension lifting from everyone’s shoulders that they’re very nearly shot of her.
I’m there, “Honor, how was the hols?”
She’s like, “Fock sake. I told her I’d get an Uber.”
She’s a cranky drunk – definitely takes after my old dear.
I’m there, “No need for an Uber. We wanted to surprise you. Are you, em, still a bit pissed from last night?”
“No,” she goes, “I’m still a bit pissed from the flight.”
“Right, because, em, your old dear wondered whether I should be having a chat with you about your, you know, let’s be honest, drinking?”
“My drinking?”
“Yes, your drinking.”
“You went on the piss for three days when that rugby man got five stors on The Restaurant.”
“He’s a friend, Honor. I don’t know why I have to keep defending myself.”
“You’re a hypocrite.”
“I’m not the hypocrite. I told you, it’s your old dear who’s worried about you.”
“Did you tell her that I liked a girl?”
“No, because you told me not to.”
“I don’t want to have to listen to her telling me that she had – oh my God – loads of gay friends in UCD. It’s like, great story, Mom!”
I take her suitcase from her and I stort wheeling it towards the exit.
“Oh, just so you know,” I go, “and I’m only telling you this because I know how much you hate surprises, your old dear is planning a big dinner to celebrate your Leaving Cert results.”
She goes, “She doesn’t even know what I got yet.”
I’m there, “Let’s just say that she’s quietly confident.”
She stops walking.
“Dad,” she goes, “I didn’t get it.”
I’m there, “Everyone says that. I think you’re a bit of a secret studier – you get that from her side of the family.”
She goes, “Dad, you’re not listening. I didn’t get my Leaving Cert. Because I didn’t even sit it.”
I’m like, “Excuse me?”
And she goes, “I didn’t turn up for any of my exams.”
I’m there, “Jesus, Honor, I’m just praying that this is the drink talking.”
And she goes, “No, Dad, it’s not.”
