When it comes to multi-tasking, there really is no one like my wife. I'm saying that as I watch her expertly corve a pumpkin with one hand and, with the other, deal with a troll on the Dalkey Open Forum.
There’s been quite a bit of comment following Sorcha’s big announcement this morning that, with trick-or-treating discouraged under the Level 5 restrictions, she would instead be posting photographs of our children in their Halloween costumes, along with our bank account details, so that people can give the kids the cash value of the sweets they would have expected to receive pre-pandemic.
Fiona Ryan from Flavian Way is of the view that this amounts to "begging", and Sorcha has been arguing the toss with her for approximately seven hours now, keeping thousands of locked-down locals entertained since just after 10 o'clock this morning.
While taunting her old dear online for the amusement of others, she's also photographing all of her clothes to create – <em>her </em> words? – a visual inventory of her wardrobe
“I’m trying to explain to this woman,” Sorcha goes, “that living with Covid shouldn’t mean penalising our children by denying them all of the things that make life fun.”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, maybe stop waving that Sabatier around, Sorcha.”
"I told her that some of us were trying to come up with clever and inventive ways to, like, maintain life as normal for our kids. For instance, I told her about the Celebrations scavenger hunt we've arranged for Saturday afternoon. But – oh my God – she's such a last word freak."
"I'm just going to put this out there, Sorcha, that there's quite possibly a pair of you in it?"
"Well, at least I haven't descended to her level of casually throwing around phrases like 'sad sack' and 'sexually frustrated bint'. Where is Flavian Way, anyway? It actually sounds more Glenageary than Dalkey and that's not me being a bitch."
The truth is that there is no Flavian Way, and Fiona Ryan is actually our daughter, who has been dealing with her boredom since the stort of the second lockdown by publicly baiting her mother for sport.
"I'm going to look it up on Google Maps," Sorcha goes. "I'm not talking about driving out there. I just wouldn't mind seeing what kind of house she lives in."
I decide that it's time to maybe tip upstairs and have a word with Honor. She's another one, by the way – as in, a multi-tasker? While taunting her old dear online for the amusement of others, she's also photographing all of her clothes to create – her words? – a visual inventory of her wardrobe.
"Oh my God," she goes, "your wife is being so passive-aggressive."
“I’m wondering has it quite possibly gone too far, Honor? You know, she’s downstairs now trying to find a street view of this woman’s gaff.”
"Er, why?"
“I don’t know. I think it’s like when you’re in your cor and you’re stuck behind some dope doing, like, 30 Ks on a road that’s supposably, like, 80. And when you finally manage to overtake them, you take a sideways look at the driver – just to put a face on your pain.”
“That’s hillair! Will you hold this coat up while I photograph it?”
I do as I’m told. It never pays to get on my daughter’s wrong side.
“Of course,” I go, “she’s going to find out in about 10 seconds that there’s no such place as Flavian Way and no such person as Fiona Ryan.”
Honor’s like, “What do you mean?”
"Well, it's you, isn't it?"
“Er, no.”
“Honor, please don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m not bullshitting you. I’ve been trolling her this week under the username BreacLivesMatter.”
“Are you saying this Fiona Ryan is actual? As in, like, a real person?”
“I presume so. She called your wife a sexually frustrated bint about an hour ago.”
“And Flavian Way – that’s actual as well, is it?”
“Yeah, no, it’s in Dalkey – although, hilariously, it’s actually more Glenageary.”
Jesus, she's the one who's been keeping the show on the road since, like, Morch. Pumpkins and scavenger hunts and blahdy, blahdy, blah
And that’s when, downstairs, I hear Sorcha go, “Ross, I’m just popping out!”
I’m like, “Oh, fock!”
Honor’s there, “What?”
“She’s heading there. She’s going to, like, confront this troll of hers.”
"Oh! My! Literally? God!"
“Come on, let’s go.”
Me and Honor grab the boys and we throw them into the back of my Five Serious, then we take off after Sorcha, with Honor providing directions. I’m driving like a lunatic, all the time silently praying that she didn’t take that paring knife with her.
Honor goes, "I think she might have actually lost it – as in, like, the plot?"
I’m like, “That focking Dalkey Open Forum,” thumping the dashboard for emphasis.
“You can only maintain that amount of passive-aggression for so long,” Honor goes. “Eventually, it has to come out.”
I’m there, “Honor, I want you to stop trolling your mother,” and she knows from the way I say it that I’m not messing around.
She's like, “Yeah, whatever.”
“I mean it, Honor. She’s been under so much pressure lately. Jesus, she’s the one who’s been keeping the show on the road since, like, Morch. Pumpkins and scavenger hunts and blahdy, blahdy, blah. And we’ve done the square root of fock-all to make it easier for her.”
“Dad, I said I’d stop, okay? It’s left up here.”
"Left? God, this really is Glenageary. The focking nerve of these people."
I spot her Nissan Leaf porked just up ahead and I listen out for the sound of raised voices. But there's none. I pull in behind her and I get out.
She’s sitting in the front passenger seat with the window open. She’s got, like, mascara streaks down her face. She goes, “I think I’m cracking up, Ross.”
I’m there, “Hey, it’s totally understandable in the circumstances.”
She goes, "I need you to step up, Ross," and I have this sudden memory of Declan Kidney saying the exact same thing to me when he was the Ireland schools coach back in the day. Except this time, I don't go, "Yeah, right!"
Instead, I’m like, “I’ll step up, Sorcha. I’ll step up in a major, major way.”
I open the door and I crouch down and I give her a hug that lasts for ages. And then – this is the unbelievable bit – I notice that Honor has gotten out of my Beamer to come and join us.
She’s there, “I’ll step up too, Mom,” throwing her orms around her old dear and squeezing her tightly.
"The stupid cow doesn't even live in Dalkey," Sorcha goes.
And I’m like, “I know. Not even close.”