“Oh my God,” Honor goes, showing me a photograph on her phone.
I’m like, “Who’s that?”
“It’s Alicia Vikander!” she goes.
And I’m there, “There’s no way!” because I’m usually a major fan.
She’s like, “It’s this amazing Twitter account I’ve storted following called Celebrities Without Make-Up. It’s all, like, paparazzi shots of famous people caught leaving the gym or on their way to the shops to buy milk.”
I’m there, “What did we do before we had social media? We thought we were happy but we weren’t.”
Sorcha's old man ends up totally flipping. He goes, "Can you please put that confounded telephone away?"
We're in, like, l'Ecrivain, by the way. We're having dinner to supposedly celebrate Sorcha's old pair's something-something wedding anniversary.
'Er, I thought you were bankrupt?' Honor goes – nail on head, as usual
And that’s when Sorcha’s old dear storts clearing her throat – like she does when she’s got something to say.
“Sorcha,” she goes, “there’s something your father and I wish to discuss with you. We’ve been making our will.”
I actually laugh. No choice in the matter. They put all their life savings into bank shares, which are now worth a grand total of fock-all.
“Er, I thought you were bankrupt?” Honor goes – nail on head, as usual.
Sorcha's old man gives her a serious filthy. He's there, "There are matters to be dealt with in a will other than the distribution of one's material assets."
It’s news to me.
Sorcha's old dear goes, "One of the issues that came up while we were talking to our solicitor was where your father and I wish to be buried. And that's when we started to think about whether or not you'd made your own arrangements in that regard?"
Sorcha's there, "Okay, this is a very morbid conversation, Mom – especially on a day of supposedly celebration?"
“As you know,” Sorcha’s old man goes, “we have the family plot in Deansgrange. It has always been our wish, dorling, that when the time comes, both you and your sister would be laid to rest with us.”
“Oh! My God!” Sorcha goes, turning her head to look at me. “It’s obviously something that me and Ross would have to discuss.”
I’m there, “Hey, I’m good with that. I don’t mind being buried in Deansgrange. It’s a good address.”
Her old man actually smiles at me then across the table. "Unfortunately," he goes, "there isn't room for you."
Sorcha’s old dear goes, “It won’t take five.”
I’m like, “Won’t take five? What the fock is it – a taxi?”
“No,” Sorcha’s old man goes, “it’s a four-berth plot,” and he can’t stop himself from smiling as he’s saying it.
They've always had it in for me – ever since I turned up at your debs covered in hickeys from another girl
All I can do is just shake my head. I’m there, “I know what this is about. You’ve been trying to split us up for years – without success. Now you’re trying to break us up in the afterlife.”
Sorcha goes, “Don’t be silly, Ross.”
“I’m not being silly. They’ve always had it in for me – ever since I turned up at your debs covered in hickeys from another girl.”
"All we're saying," Sorcha's old dear goes, "is that you have to be pragmatic, Sorcha. We will always be your parents. He might not always be your husband."
"I would say the odds are very much against it," he goes.
I’m there, “Yeah, you’re not much of a gambler, can I just remind you? If you were, you wouldn’t have spent three years living in a Shomera in our back gorden.”
“How many times have you cheated on our daughter over the years?”
I don’t answer him. There’s an official figure and an unofficial figure. I wouldn’t give him the pleasure by accidentally quoting the wrong one.
“Exactly,” he goes. “For Heaven’s sakes, Sorcha, you were getting divorced a few years ago. And you’ve been separated how many times since then?”
“Three,” she goes, suddenly looking at me differently.
He’s there, “We’re just saying, dorling, that you don’t want to end up in a plot on your own for all eternity.”
I'm like, "She won't be on her own. I'm hopefully determined to make a genuine go of our marriage this time. And, when the time comes, I want to be laid to rest next to her – the love of my literally life."
I'd be a fool to believe that the war with my in-laws will end in this life
It’s my use of that last phrase that suddenly triggers a memory in Sorcha. “Hang on,” she goes, “you always said you wanted to have your body cremated and your ashes scattered across Croke Pork.”
“I said the Aviva Stadium, Sorcha! Jesus Christ, I knew you’d get that wrong! Honor, can you make sure your old dear doesn’t scatter me across Croke Pork?”
But Honor is glued to her phone, still looking at celebrities without make-up.
“My point is,” Sorcha goes, “that you never had any intention of being buried next to me, Ross. And I don’t want to be by myself.”
Her old man gives me a little victory smile. I’d be a fool to believe that the war with my in-laws will end in this life. There will be many, many dinners like this in Heaven. That’s if I end up there. Although if Israel Folau is on the door, it’s highly unlikely, given how many times I recognized myself on his Checklist of the Damned.
All of a sudden, Honor looks up from her phone. "You're all forgetting something," she goes. "I'm probably going to outlive you all. Which means that I'll have the final say on who ends up being buried next to who. I could move you around like the furniture if I wanted to. I might exhume you, Mom, and throw Dad in with these two dopes for ten or twenty years."
I actually laugh, even though it's a bit – I want to say – chilling?
Sorcha's old man goes, "You'll do no such thing!" but he knows she would. She totally would?
"Then," she goes, "just before I die, I'll have Dad exhumed and then I'll be buried next to the two of you. How would you like that? An eternity in the company of me. That's what you'll get if you don't stort being nicer to my dad."
I will never be able to put into words how much I love my daughter – and how much she also frightens me. She holds her phone up to me and goes, “Look at the focking state of Jennifer Aniston.”
