"Oh my God," Honor goes, barely looking up from her phone at me, "I've just noticed how fat you've become lately. When you step on the bathroom scales, does it say, 'To Be Continued'?"
I go, “I’m sorry, Honor, we’re not doing that today.”
“Doing what?”
“That whole you-slagging-me-off-but-only-out-of-genuine-love-and-affection thing.”
“Love and affection?”
"Unfortunately for you, you're talking to the other Rossmeister today – not the cool dad, but the responsible parent who isn't afraid to do the whole tough love thing."
“The whole tough love thing? Okay, this should be hilarious.”
“I’m going to ask you a question, Honor, and I want you to tell me the truth. Did you set up a website called Rate My Playdate, on which kids can slag each other off anonymously – calling each other names like ‘dopes’, ‘knobs’ and ‘losers’?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t lie to me, Honor . . . Hang on, did you just say yes?”
"Yes. Because it was me. I set up the site."
"Well, I was kind of banking on you denying it, then at least I could tell your old dear that I did my bit by putting the question to you. This has totally thrown me now."
"I set it up because of all the lame playdates you and her sent me on over the years."
“We just wanted you to have a friend.”
“I was thinking, why isn’t there a website like TripAdvisor where kids can share their experiences of bad playdates so that they know in future who to avoid? Grandad said that the secret of a successful business is coming up with something that people didn’t know they wanted, but once you’ve given it to them, they don’t know how they ever lived without it.”
"He told me the secret of a successful business is becoming really, really good friends with politicians. I can't believe you're taking business advice from my old man, anyway. You know he's done actual jail time?"
“Well, he said he knows one or two people who can show me how to monetise the site.”
It's wrong to suggest we haven't suffered. My husband has a thing called a judgment against him and I'm still driving around in a 152D car
I sit down and just sigh. The word is out, by the way. It's the only thing that the moms in our WhatsApp group have been talking about today: the poor reviews that their children – and I suppose by implication they, as parents – have received on Rate My Playdate.
My phone beeps. It's Rachel Lynch. She's still upset at what someone wrote on the site about Eponine illegedly – if that's the right word – stealing a Pandora bracelet while on a playdate, then some other stuff about it being no real surprise considering that her old man borrowed €18 million before the crash and has never paid back a single cent of it, even though they still go on three holidays a year.
She's telling us, "The house in France is in my sister-in-law's name. And it's wrong to suggest we haven't suffered. My husband has a thing called a judgment against him and I'm still driving around in a 152D car."
We all sympathise with her. I message her, going, “That’s terrible, Rachel. My thoughts are with you at this difficult time x.”
Honor's like, "Anyway, why do you care if I set up this website?"
I’m there, “Because you’ve hurt a lot of people, Honor. Someone said Amanda Mangan’s house smells like a wet Irish wolfhound. I’m supposed to be doing Pilates with this woman on Wednesday afternoons.”
Honor just laughs. "So that's it!" she goes. "You've made all these new friends and you're terrified that I'm going to ruin it for you?"
I'm there, "She got me into this amazing class. Half of Ranelagh is on the waiting list."
“Do you honestly think that all these moms who are supposedly upset about this website aren’t reading through it looking for dirt on people they know?”
“They wouldn’t.”
“Oh my God, you grew up in south Dublin, but sometimes it’s like you arrived here from space an hour ago.”
“What do you mean?”
"Okay, all these moms you're supposedly friends with are being really sympathetic to each other on WhatsApp, are they?"
“Yeah, no, there’s some lovely messages of support, all right. One or two that had me in actual tears.”
"What do you think they're saying to each other on the other WhatsApp groups they're members of?"
“What other WhatsApp groups?”
Who knows what those same moms are saying behind her back on the orchestra WhatsApp group or the mid-term trip to <a class="search" href='javascript:window.parent.actionEventData({$contentId:"7.1213540", $action:"view", $target:"work"})' polopoly:contentid="7.1213540" polopoly:searchtag="tag_location">Dordogne</a> WhatsApp group?
"Er, the drama group? The swimming group? The hockey group? The Gaeilgeoirí group?"
“I didn’t know there were, like, different groups?”
“You’ve no idea about the world you’ve just stepped into, do you?”
“Apparently not.”
"So you're all telling Amanda Mangan that it's terrible that someone said her house smells like a wet greyhound-"
“I think the breed was wolfhound.”
"Wolfhound, then. But who knows what those same moms are saying behind her back on the orchestra WhatsApp group or the mid-term trip to Dordogne WhatsApp group?"
“I genuinely don’t think The Girls are like that.”
“The Girls? Oh my God, it’s worse than I thought.”
“You’re saying you don’t think they’re being one hundred per cent genuine?”
“Okay, I’m trying to think of a metaphor here?”
“A metaphor – how do I know that word?”
“It’s an indirect way of telling a story. Right, I’ve got it. Do you remember mom’s granny used to go to bingo in the community hall in Foxrock?”
“Remember? I used to have to drive her home – half-cut, most nights.”
“Well, do you remember how she was able to play eight bingo cords at exactly the same time?”
“Yeah – drunk as well.”
“That’s what these moms are like on WhatsApp. They can manage different relationships with different people depending on who’s involved in the conversation.”
“But how could someone’s brain cope with that?”
“You’re forgetting that most Mount Anville moms were once Mount Anville students.”
“Yeah, no – as in, how do they never send the wrong message out to the wrong WhatsApp group?”
“You’ve only had the app a few weeks. It’ll happen.”
“I don’t think it will. From the five or six times we’ve all met for coffee, these moms seem genuinely-”
And right on cue, my phone suddenly beeps. It’s a message from Rachel Lynch, saying, “I’ve just had that a**hole Ross sympathising with me about what it said on Rate My Playdate – when everyone KNOWS it was his vicious little cow of a daughter who set it up.”
