SO THERE I am, minding my own business, pouring eight sackloads of documents from a financial institution that shall remain nameless into the shredder, hurting nobody, actually content in my work, even if it ismanual labour? That's when I hear a voice that somehow always manages to switch off my happiness at the mains, writes ROSS O'CARROLL-KELLY

“Why have you been ignoring my calls?”

Lots of married men, I imagine, have difficult relationships with their fathers-in-law. But there’s just something about me – it could be something as simple as the way I talk – that drives Sorcha’s old man into the kind of rage where he’s capable of doing almost literally anything, then getting an acquittal, as he’s often pointed out to me, on the grounds of diminished responsibility.

“Hey, Mr Lalor,” I go, trying to keep it breezy, roysh, as you do with a man who’s twice pressed a loaded gun against your forehead. “Did you see the Australia match? The Man again, huh? Taking care of business. Even though I know you’re more of a Munster supporter, what with your old pair coming from – no offence – but Tipperary.”

That’s the other thing that happens when I’m around him – I always go into, like, verbal diarrhoea mode.

“Get down out of that van,” he goes and I don’t need to be told a second time. He’s mad as a cut snake. I’m suddenly trembling worse than I’ve seen Ronan tremble lately – and at least he has the excuse that he’s trying to quit a 20-a-day cigarette habit.

I can see the old man through the window of the, again, nameless financial instutition, chatting away to some dude in a suit about presumably the only thing anyone in the world’s talking about these days – the whole recesh thing? The point is, he’d be useless as a witness.

“Why is Sorcha’s shop still open?” the dude wants to know. “You were supposed to persuade her to shut it down.”

I pull a face.

“Well, you know how, I don’t know, determined she is,” I try to go. “Remember those Irish debates she used to do in the National Concert Hall. It was agus this and agus that. You’d end up practically covered in phlegm.”

He just, like, glowers at me.

“I’m retiring on the 18th of December,” he goes. “My pension is, well, not quite as substantial as Sorcha’s mother and I wanted it to be. I’ve already told you, I can’t go on bankrolling her indefinitely . . . ”

I’m there, “Er, cool.”

" Cool?" he goes, taking a step closer to me. "Do you know how many thousands of euros she's losing every month?"

“To be honest, no – although I’d imagine it’s a fair few from the way you’re talking.”

He’s there, “Well, you’re going to know exactly how much . . . in time. Because I’m going to make sure, when she finally gets around to divorcing you, that she takes you for every cent you’ve got.”

They do say that family law solicitors are the deadliest of the species.

“Maybe I’ll, er, have another word with her,” I suddenly go.

He’s there, “Yes, you do that, Ross. I’m giving you until Christmas,” and he walks away.

I push the door of the – I’d love to tell you – financial instutition.

The old man’s going, “The House in Howth is doing a soup and a stew for a tenner! It’s venison stew, naturally, but it’s still a reflection of how bad things are everywhere.”

I butt straight in.

“I’ve just been nearly murdered out here,” I go. “Not that you even noticed. I’m taking a half-day. Call it stress. If you don’t like it, you can find yourself another PAYE monkey.”

Then I’m gone – gone like Maud.

I head for the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre, still unsure of what I’m going to say. All I know is that if Edmund Lalor of Edmund T Lalor and Associates can’t afford to keep bankrolling Sorcha and Circa, then I definitely can’t.

I don’t want to end up losing my gaff.

Rather than come up with an actual plan, I decide to, like, play it by ear and say whatever pops into my head. A lot of people say I’ve got an actual way with words?

Except, roysh, I end up getting totally thrown by the sight that greets me when I walk through the door. There, sat behind the counter, is Ronan, with a big mountain of clothes in front of him, taking each item in turn and ripping out a few seams with, like, a Stanley knife.

You can imagine my reaction.

“You put down that hot pink shirtdress with statement collar by Rachel Comey,” I suddenly hear myself go.

I’ve obviously been spending far too much time around women lately. I must watch the Fiji match today with the goys and a few beers – get back to, like, basics.

Ronan looks up in fright. I ask what’s going on – has nicotine withdrawal suddenly sent his 12-year-old mind over the edge?

That’s when Sorcha all of a sudden emerges from the office behind him. “I asked him to it,” she goes.

Now I'm, like, totallyconfused. I'm like, "What is it? Some kind of twisted fashion self-horm thing?"

Of course it couldn’t be something that simple.

“I need to start shifting stock,” she goes, “because the bank have threatened to repossess the house . . .”

I’m like, “What?”

“Now, you know how I feel about sales, Ross. I don’t believe in them. I think they’re actually counter-productive. Once you get a reputation as a store that discounts items, well, it’s a slippery slope.”

“Yeah, I’m told homelessness is a bit like that as well,” I go.

She doesn’t bat an eyelid.

She’s there, “That’s why I’ve decided to avoid the S word altogether and have,

like, a Damaged Stock Clearance

instead?”

I look at Ro there, sweating bricks, gagging for a cigarette. I ask him what he’s getting out of it. He says it’s just something for him to do with his hands.

“Sorcha,” I go, “just close it down.”

She’s like, “No, but this is, like, the final throw.”

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