'You're very quiet this morning," the old man goes. "I asked you a second ago if you thought Merkel and Hollande should send troops into Greece as a warning to the rest of Europe and you barely acknowledged me."
Of course, Honor has to throw her two drachma in then. “My mum threw him out,” she goes. “He’s been living with Oisinn for the past week.”
The old man looks at me in the rear-view mirror. We’re in the old Kompressor, by the way, on the way down to Schull – him driving, Honor in the front passenger seat and me stretched out in the back.
“Yes,” the old man goes, “I suspected something of that colour alright. I couldn’t help but notice that you were wearing the same clothes you were wearing on Monday.”
"He's wearing the same clothes he was wearing in 1998," Honor goes. "Beige chinos, Dubes and a light blue Ralph Lauren shirt."
The old man actually laughs.
I’m there, “It’s a timeless look. If it’s not broke, why fix it?”
Honor is going to China on a Mandarin Immersion Programme in 10 weeks. I'm literally counting off the days.
I’m there, “If you must know, Sorcha found out I didn’t vote in the Same Sex After Marriage referendum. I was supposed to bring her granny to the polling station. She was going to vote basically no and I was going to vote obviously yes. I just figured it was a waste of time, so we agreed that she should carry on watching her soaps and I should just stay in Kielys.”
“It’s called a pairing arrangement,” the old man goes. “It’s very much a part of modern democracy. Did you explain that to Sorcha?”
I’m like, “I tried. But she was too busy throwing my clothes out the window.”
The reason for this road trip, I should mention, is that the old man has decided to buy a holiday villa in Schull – “a barbican”, as he calls it, “in which to shelter from the slings and arrows of political life”.
He's got his hort set on this one particular gaff? I'm reading about it on my phone – perched majestically on a hilltop with uninterrupted sea views, seven en-suite bedrooms with underfloor heating, rooftop jacuzzi, blah, blah, blah.
It was, like, Helen who fell in love with it. The old man rang the owner and offered him six hundred Ks for it. He said no. The old man upped it to, like, seven hundred and fifty Ks, but the dude said it wasn’t for sale – at any price. So now the old man is going to see him – we’re talking, like, face-to-face? – to try to get him to change his mind.
“This house isn’t just for Helen and me,” he tries to go. “You can spend your summers down here, Honor.”
My daughter looks up from her phone, her nose all wrinkled. “Er, no thanks,” she goes. “What if I pick up an accent?”
“I kind of like the accent,” I go, because I’m on the record as saying that I have a bit of a thing for Cork women. “It’s like listening to someone trying to talk with a hot cocktail sausage in their mouth.”
“Oh my God, you’re so sad,” Honor goes.
Ten weeks, I think to myself. Ten weeks.
I turn around to the old man. I’m there, “I wouldn’t stort counting your chickens. The dude has already told you what to do with your offer.”
He’s there, “I can be very persuasive, Kicker,” and he runs his hand through his hair – not his real hair, obviously, because he’s as bald as a focking tractor tyre. I’m talking about the wig that makes him look like Denis O’Brien and that he swears has given him super powers.
I laugh. I’m there, “I genuinely can’t wait to see this.”
We eventually reach the gaff. We all get out of the cor. Honor puts her hand over her mouth and goes, "Oh my God, what is that smell?"
I’m there, “You know that smell. You’ve been to Cavistons with your mother.”
She goes, "Yeah, but a whole town that smells like Cavistons? Er, no thanks!" and she gets back into the Kompressor.
She’s very much a home bird.
Me and the old man approach the gates. It's a pretty incredible gaff alright. He presses the buzzer and 10 seconds later a dude's voice comes through the speaker. He's like, "Yes?"
“Charles O’Carroll-Kelly,” the old man goes. “We spoke on the phone about, well, how much I love this house of yours.”
The dude laughs and he’s there, “Look, I meant what I said. It’s not for sale.”
The old man goes, “We’ve driven all this way. Give me a hearing. Just come to the gate.”
Thirty seconds later, the front door opens and the dude – I’d say he’s in, like, his mid-fifties – storts walking towards us. He’s going, “Like I said to you, I love this house more than anything in the world and I wouldn’t …” except then he suddenly stops.
He’s staring at my old man’s head, his mouth slung open in quite literally awe.
He’s like, “The… the… the…”
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand,” the old man goes.
The dude – it’s incredible to watch – just nods his head in tight little movements.
"On second thoughts," the old man goes, "how about six hundred and fifty thousand?"
The dude’s just like, “I’ve never seen anything like it. Can I touch it? Please.”
The old man lets him touch it through the gate. The dude’s like, “It’s the hair of … of a demigod!”
“Six hundred thousand,” the old man goes. “And that’s my final offer.”
They do the deal there and then. The dude promises to be out of the gaff within a week. We get back into the cor. Honor still has her hand over her mouth. “Tell me when the smell is gone,” she goes.
The old man’s like, “You know, I think I could have got the chap down to five hundred thousand.”
“Just keep driving,” I go. “I’ve got a job for you. You’re going to persuade Sorcha to take me back.”
ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE