Sorcha says she got a text from her old pair. They’re having an – oh my God – amazing, amazing holiday on the Aran Islands.
“The Aran Islands,” Honor goes, not even looking up from her phone. “Bogger Hawaii.”
Sorcha’s there, “Honor, that’s cheeky and disrespectful.”
“And hilarious,” I add. “And you know the rule, Honor – one trumps the other two. The next time we hit a red light, you are getting a high-five – that’s locked in.”
She just goes, “Whatever,” again not even looking up and, when we do hit a red light at Cornelscourt, and I turn around in my seat, she actually leaves me hanging.
We’re in the cor, if you haven’t worked that out, dropping Honor to school. It’s, like, her second day back after the summer holidays and she’s her usual cheery self about it.
“So how’s the whole Safe Zone thing working out?” Sorcha wants to know.
I’m there, “Safe Zone? What are you talking about?”
“Oh my God,” Sorcha goes, “it’s this, like, new initiative? It’s an area where young people who feel different can go and just, like, be?”
Honor’s there, “It’s a place where they put all the knobs to keep them safe.”
“That’s not the idea, Honor. It’s an area where children who feel socially excluded can go to without the fear of being bullied. And I meant to say to you, if you ever feel the compulsion to celebrate your individuality, free from the judgment of your peers, don’t be afraid to go in there yourself.”
Honor, bullied? Seriously, sometimes I feel like going, “Sorcha, have you ever met your daughter?”
We had another cease and desist letter from Taylor Swift’s people last week for some of the things she’s been saying on Twitter. I haven’t told Sorcha. She’s a worrier. I just passed it on to Hennessy to deal with it.
“It’s a lame idea,” Honor goes, her nose still stuck in her phone. “Oh my God, Taylor Swift has blocked me again.”
I’m there, “You have been giving her a hord time, Honor.”
“But I was doing it under loads of, like, fake names. And now all of them are blocked.”
“Yeah, that’s a bit unfair all right. A bit sneaky of the girl. Why don’t you set up a bunch of new accounts?”
“No, I’ll just take it out on Caroline Flack.”
“You’re a multi-tasker, Honor. I know I’m always giving you little compliments, but this is one I definitely mean.”
Fifteen minutes later, we pull up outside the school. Honor opens the back door and gets out. Then something totally random happens? Sorcha gets out as well.
Honor’s like, “Where the fock are you going?”
She took the words right out of my mouth.
Sorcha’s there, “Don’t worry, Honor, I’m not going to embarrass you. I just want to see this Safe Zone for myself. Come on, Ross – it’s, like, the first one ever in Ireland!”
So I’ve no choice but to get out of the cor as well. We stort walking across the cor pork and I can’t help but notice that the place is, like, deathly quiet. Sorcha’s there, “Oh my God, it’s not a Holy Day today, is it?”
I check my phone. “Not according to my records,” I go.
My Holy Days are Brian O’Driscoll’s birthday, Johnny Sexton’s birthday and Ronan O’Gara’s birthday. I do very little on Paul O’Connell’s birthday as well.
She’s like, “Where is everyone then?”
That’s when we run into Miss Groarty, Honor’s teacher this year. She’s kind of foxy if that doesn’t come across as sexist.
Sorcha’s all, “Hi, Miss Groarty – there is school today, isn’t there?”
The woman’s like, “Yes, there’s school today.”
“My husband and I just wanted to see this famous Safe Zone. It’s such an amazing, amazing idea. They’re – oh my God – really catching on in America. I read about them in the New Yorker.”
There’s something wrong – I can see it in Miss Groarty’s face. She’s there, “Well, we have had one or two, em, teething problems with it.”
Sorcha’s like, “Oh?”
Miss Groarty just, like, stares at Honor, who doesn’t seem to notice. She’s still looking at her phone.
“You, em, better come with me,” the woman goes.
So we follow her around the back of the school. Sorcha’s still wittering away. “The one I read about in the New Yorker had signs up and they were like, ‘I am gentle! I am understanding! I am non-judgmental! Welcome to the Safe Zone!’ I still get goosebumps remembering that sign. I’ve always loved anything that involves, like, celebrating difference?”
We arrive at the back of the school and that’s when I see what Miss Groarty was talking about. There’s, like, a fenced-off area on the far side of the playground which looks not so much like a Safe Area as a cage. And the reason the school is so quiet this morning is suddenly obvious. The entire student population is staring at us from the other side of the bors.
Sorcha goes, “What? I don’t . . . understand.”
I’m there, “They’re hiding from our daughter.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ross.”
But as Sorcha is saying it, I notice, Honor is pacing backwards and forwards in front of the cage, glowering at 200 terrified kids, huddling together inside. It’s like something off the news.
Sorcha turns to Miss Groarty and goes, “Tell me they’re not hiding from our daughter!”
The woman goes, “They, em, do seem to be.”
Sorcha looks at me, her eyes welling up. “Ross,” she goes, “can you believe this?”
“Er, no,” I go.
If lying was an Olympic event, I’d bring glory to this country.
“The thing is,” Miss Groarty goes, “the Safe Zone isn’t big enough to accommodate that many students.”
She’s right – they’re packed in there like cattle in a truck.
“It’s a health and safety issue. So we were thinking we might have to, well, invert the two areas.”
“Invert them?” Sorcha goes.
“Make the playground the Safe Zone and make the area behind the bars the playground.”
Sorcha looks at me, tears spilling down her face. “Ross,” she goes, “do you know what Miss Groarty is saying?”
“It would just make things simpler,” the woman goes.
Sorcha’s like, “Ross, she’s talking about locking Honor up in a cage.”