They’re all gushing over the old dear’s new recession novel. Still, it’ll come in handy in case I ever run out of bogroll
THESE FAMILY dinners that the old man insists we keep having get weirder and weirder – just like our family, I suppose.
I mean, it's me, him, his new squeeze Helen, Erika – the love child they had 30 years ago while he was still with my old dear – and Fionn, her so-called boyfriend, who's not even in the girl's league – and I say that as one of his best friends.
Oh, and the old dear's on her way too – on the way here, to Ailesbury Road, to the home of the woman who's now her husband's lover, because they've all managed to stay friends.
Yep, you're in southDublin now – and this is how we do things.
And Fionn's doing the cooking, presumably to try to impress Erika and – he wishes – his in-laws. Some kind of chicken dish. À la something or other. Of course I'm putting him under serious pressure, going, "That chicken better be cooked, Fionn."
He pushes his glasses up on his nose. “It is,” he goes, because he’s got an answer for everything.
"All I'm saying is, I don't want to wakeup tomorrow with an orse like a bullet wound."
He’s there, “I checked it with the thermometer, Ross,” and then he holds it up. It’s the one he always brings to borbecues. “One hundred and seventy-four degrees Fahrenheit.” I just roll my eyes. That could mean anything.
The old man tries to change the subject. “I see Fianna Fáil are up to their old tricks again – dirty bloody tricks.”
I don’t even bother asking him what he’s talking about. But Erika does? See, she doesn’t know him well enough yet. She’s like, “What’s this, Charles?”
"Oh," he goes, "this plan of the Government's to give out free cheese to the poor. It wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that the man who's the bookies' favourite to become the first directly elected lord mayorof Dublin – the man who, by the way, hasn't yet ruled out a run for the Park – is himself one of this city's best-known purveyors of coagulated milk protein?"
He’s talking about Cheeses Merrion Joseph, the old man’s supposed shop, which is actually nothing more than a front to launder the 50-something million he managed to stash in Andorra before he got sent down.
"Do you really think?" Erika goes. LikeI said, she's still not wise to him.
He’s there, “Well, of course! Brian Cowen’s bloody terrified of me. That’s why they’re trying to stop my campaign in its tracks, darling. Dump 53 tonnes of free cheese on the people and hope it’ll reduce Charles O’Carroll-Kelly’s popular appeal – enough to win over the floating voter, at any rate!”
I’m looking at Helen, who’s not actually that bad-looking – I’ve always thought Diane Lane – and I’m thinking, what do you even see in him?
The next thing, roysh, the old dear arrives. Always has to be the centre of attention, which is the reason she always arrives late. The old man answers the door and all I can hear are his roars of “Congratulations! Congratulations!” coming from the hall.
Then I suddenly remember that her new book is out this weekend – this new recession-based misery-lit novel of hers. I just shake my head. I watch Shameless sometimes and think, why can’t we be a normal family like that?
I turn around and she’s stood practically on top of me, wearing a Herve Leger bandage dress that – I’m going to be brutally honest – is far too figure-hugging and reveals way too much skin.
"You look like a scarecrow wrapped in papiermache," I make sure to go. "I hope you know that." This she decides to ignore. Instead, she just hands us each a copy of the book.
I check out the cover. It has a picture of a littlegirl on it – not much older than Honor, I'd say – and she's staring at the camera with, like, tears rolling down her face, then underneath it's like, Mom, They Said They'd Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoes, which is obviously the title, then underneath that, it's like, "The heartbreaking story of a happy childhood turned suddenly deprived!"
“Fresh from the printers,” she tries to go.
I turn to Fionn. "I'll tell yousomething," I go, "if I do end up on the bowl all day tomorrow because of something you cooked, at least I'll have something to wipe myself with. I'm actually going to stick it in the freezer the second I go home." There's, like, immediate silence. See, I've neverbeen afraid to call it – no matter what the reaction.
Then the rest of them stort giving the woman what she basically wants – in other words, praise? Helen, being too nice for her own good, says it's a wonderful achievement. Erika says it's a totally new departure forher. And the old man goes, "Fionnuala O'Carroll-Kelly is back! Exclamation mark! No, no – three exclamation marks!!!" None of them having even opened it yet, by the way.
Fionn – he really is a total crawler – storts reading aloud from the back cover.
He's there, "Sarah Mesbur is a well-adjusted, happy-go-lucky seven-year-old girl, growing up in Foxrock, her life circumscribed by the general round of south Dublin life – gymkhanas, the school orchestra and playdates with herfriends Eily and Louisa in Dundrum Shopping Centre. But little does she know that an unexpected downturn in Ireland's economic fortunes is about to turn her normal life upside down.
“Suddenly, she finds herself cast into a new and darker world, where simply spending money is considered an act worthy of shame and where basic gourmet food items, such as lomo ibérico and truffle butter, are regarded – rather like opium – as part of some disgraceful, decadent past.
“Sarah, though, refuses to allow her spirit to be broken and never stops dreaming of escaping from a world in which Michelin-star restaurants are forced to offer ‘reasonably priced’ set menus and shoppers trudge up and down Grafton Street, in desperate huddles, dead-eyed and unsmiling, in search of ‘bargains’.
"Mom, They Said They'd Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoesis a heart-rending story of one girl's attempt to keep her sanity in a world gone suddenly mad."
Welcome to Sunday dinner in the O’Carroll-Kelly house.
rossocarrollkelly.ie
