Sorcha’s little sister – Orphelia or Azaria or whatever – obviously has the hots for me

THEY’RE FLOGGING off all their Nigella Lawson cookware at BTs – possibly the surest sign yet that the good times are well and truly over.

I'm looking at this Living Kitchen breadbin in, like, rosebud and beech – which wasa 100 snots – and I'm thinking, yeah, maybe we didlose the run of ourselves there for a little while.

That's when I hear a familiar voice: "Oh! My God! I hopethat isn't a wedding present for us, Ross!"

I look up. It is her, as in Sorcha’s little sister – Orphelia or Azaria or whatever the fock she calls herself.

Have I mentioned that she looks incredible?

“Wedding?” I go. “I didn’t even know you were going out with someone,” which comes as, like, a major surprise to her.

She’s there, “Are you saying that Sorcha didn’t pass on the invitation?”

“Invitation?”

“Ross, I want you there. Oh my God, you’re, like, part of our family.”

I'm just there, "Er, not for much longer. Your sister's, like, divorcingme, remember?"

She shakes her head, roysh, all disappointed. "She is sucha bitch. I can't believe she didn't tell you about the wedding."

Except I end up, like, defendingher. "Look, can you honestly blame her for not wanting me there? I'd probably end up just focking things up, like I always do – acting Jack the Lad and whatever else.

“I haven’t changed, you know. In fairness, there’s a lot of people out there who wouldn’t want me to.”

I suddenly notice that she’s looking at me like I’m chocolate cake. See, there’s, like, a history there.

"It's soamazing to see you," she goes, her tongue hanging out – and this is going to soundbig-headed – like a rollerblind with a focked spring. She's always had a major thing for me. But she's also trouble, so I end up quickly changing the subject. "So," I go, "who's the dude?"

She's there, "Oh my God, you haveto meet him!" and then she turns around and storts giving it, "Pete! Pete!" until this dude in a pink Hollister T-shirt storts lumbering over in our general postcode.

“He went to Clongowes,” she goes, out of the corner of her mouth.

I’m like, “Clongowes?” except not in, like, a jealous way.

“Ross, please don’t start anything.”

“I’m not going to stort anything. I’m just saying, Jesus, there’s other schools.”

Anyway, roysh, he arrives over and whatever-her-name-is makes the introductions.

The first thing that hits me when I look at him – to the point that my jaw actually drops – is that he's an absolute ringer for me. The similarity is – you'd have to say – uncanny.

It’s honestly like looking at myself in the mirror – except one of those funfair mirrors that makes you look slightly less good-looking and slightly less muscly up on top.

"Oh, I knowwho he is," the dude just goes, gripping my hand a bit tighter than is friendly. Which is when I cop the other thing that's obvious about the husband-to-be – he's giving me serious tude.

I suppose if they’re getting hitched, she’s obviously given him her full service history. And, like I said, my stamps are all over that logbook.

“Pete,” she just goes, “I thought you were going to the bathroom.”

He’s like, “No,” on the straightaway defensive.

She’s there, “Pete, the only reason we came in here was for you to use the toilet.”

We’ve got that in common as well, by the way – there’s no better place in the city centre for a casual Forrest Gump. Except he obviously doesn’t want to leave her alone with me.

I look at him, roysh, and then nod in the direction of the toilets and go, “Grab a seat, Clongowes boy.”

He wantsto deck me – you can see it – but shegoes, "Pete! Please!" and he ends up walking off, roysh, just shaking his head. She apologises for him, and I tell her it ain't no thing but a Chandler Bing.

“Look, it’s a Clongowes and me thing,” I go. “Hey, me and Rob Kearney came to practically blows over there in the Nespresso section on Christmas Eve. But there’s no hord feelings – all it shows is how seriously we take our rugby.”

She honestly looks like she wants to hop me there and then in the middle of Gifts and Household.

She was always a sucker for that kind of talk – like her sister, you’d have to say.

I can see her checking out my abs – if it's a word – hungrily?

She’s there, “You’re looking really, really well, Ross.”

Of course, what do you say to that? “A lot of people have been telling me that lately,” I go. “I think my 30s are going to be my best decade, especially looks-wise.”

She smiles. "Do you know what everyone keeps saying to me? That Pete is the image of you."

I stick my lower lip out and sort of, like, shake my head. I’m there, “I wouldn’t have said that – and that’s not me being big-headed.”

"Even Sorcha commented on it. Of course, you know what sheautomatically thinks."

“Er, what?”

“That who I really want is you – that’s why I’m marrying someone who reminds me of you.”

Now, I don’t embarrass easily. I played for UCD, remember, for nearly a full season. But I’m all of a sudden taking a very serious interest in a ceramic salt pig in robin’s egg blue.

I'm giving it, " Was90 snots. We really did lose it, didn't we – as, like, a nation?"

She’s there, “It’s the 24th of July, Ross – please tell me you’ll come?” and I tell her...

Well, what do you think I tell her?