I’m always telling Sorcha to tone down the southside when we come out to Bray but she never listens

I’m like, “Bray?”

And Sorcha’s there, “Yes, Ross – Bray!”

I’m like, “But why do we have to go to Bray?” sounding like a spoiled child – in other words, one of ours.

She slows down as we’re approaching the Loughlinstown roundabout. For a second or two, I consider opening the front passenger door and throwing myself out on to the road. But, at the vital moment, I make the fatal mistake of hesitating and suddenly we’re through the thing and heading south at one hundred K’s per hour.

I’m always telling Sorcha to tone down the southside when we come out to Bray but she never listens

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‘I haven’t really been living before now,’ Brett tells his wife. ‘Ross has slept with more than 800 women’

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‘I’m not even a bit stressed,’ Honor goes, ‘I haven’t done a focking tap for these exams’

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‘He obviously decided that he’d wasted his life, focusing on career, marriage and family goals’

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Sorcha’s like, “We’re going to see my friend, Claire–”

I’m there, “Claire from Bray of all places?”

“Yes, Ross, Claire from Bray of all places.”

“And will he be there?” – he being her husband, Garret, who I despise more than anyone else in the world and not just because he has zero interest in rugby.

Sorcha goes, “I’ve been promising for – oh my God – ages to pop out to see this new coffee shop of theirs.”

I’m like, “Another one? So what’s the gimmick this time?”

She goes, “All the staff are ex-offenders.”

I’m there, “Did you just say all the staff are sex offenders?”

“Ex-offenders, Ross. All the staff are ex-offenders. And it’s not a gimmick.”

“It’s a definite gimmick.”

“Ross, they’re offering an opportunity to people who – yeah, no – made mistakes in their lives and want to get back on the right road.”

“I’d say they’re dirt cheap to hire as well.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say. And can I just remind you that your actual father is an ex-offender?”

“It still sounds like you’re saying sex offender. I think it must be your invisible braces.”

Anyway, 10 minutes later, we’re walking through the front door of what was, until very recently, Wheat Bray Love, but is now called Second Shot Roasters.

Garret is wearing a bow-tie and one of those hipster moustaches with the ends twisted upwards that seems to say, “Please punch me very hord in the face”, and I end up having to put my hands in my pockets just to keep the porty polite.

He goes, “Sorcha, how the hell are you?” because he’s such a wannabe. Greystones. I rest my case. He says fock-all to me, but he makes a big point of looking at the crest on my Leinster training tee and sort of, like, smirking to himself.

I’m there, “Have you got a problem, Dude?”

And he goes, “One of us has. Claire’s over there, Sorcha. She’s training in our new barista.”

So we tip over to where Claire – yeah, no – is showing some random woman how to use the coffee machine. The woman – I’m just going to come out and say it – looks rougher than a sandpaper condom and she just, like, glowers at Sorcha while her and Claire do the whole, like, air-kissing thing.

Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, this place is amazing!”

Claire’s like, “Thank you.”

“I mean, you’re not only serving coffee,” Sorcha goes, “you’re serving hope,” and I’m thinking that’s definitely a line she came up with in the cor.

While this conversation is taking place, the woman making the coffee is just, like, glowering at Sorcha. I’m always telling her to maybe tone down the southside when we come out here but she never listens.

At the top of her voice, she’s like, “So how’s Scout getting on in Vancouver?” and you can see not only the staff but the customers looking over as if to say, “Who the hell does this one think she is?”

She goes, “Claire’s niece is working in Canada for the summer, Ross.”

Claire’s there, “Yeah, no one’s going to the States this year because of the whole, like, Trump thing? She’s absolutely loving Canada.”

Sorcha’s like, “Is it safe over there? I always say to Honor, if you ever find yourself in a strange place and you feel unsafe, just remember: FTL.”

Claire goes, “What’s FTL?”

And I’m like, “Sorcha, maybe this isn’t the right place for this conversation,” because the woman making the coffee is looking at her like she wants to take that milk thermometer she’s holding and stick it up her focking nose.

“FTL,” Sorcha goes, “stands for Find the Lululemon. Because their location people – oh my God – really, like, do their homework? I always remind my daughter, no matter what city you’re in, the Lululemon will always be on the best street. Nothing bad ever happens near a Lululemon.”

That’s when she suddenly storts patting the top of her head, going, “My sunglasses! Oh my God, where are my sunglasses?”

And the woman making the coffees is like, “Why did you look at me when you said that?”

Sorcha’s there, “I didn’t look at you.”

She actually did look at her, but it was – and this is possibly a made-up word – an unconscience thing?

“I remember you,” the woman goes, then she turns and looks at me. “And I remember you as well.”

Jesus, I’m thinking – has she had the pleasure of my –.

“I was in court,” she goes, “the same day as your daughter.”

Yeah, no, I keep forgetting that Honor – in her own way – is sort of, like, an ex-offender herself?

Sorcha looks around her – again, it’s unconscience – to see who might be listening.

“She caused criminal damage to 200 SUVs,” the woman goes.

I’m there, “It was actually only 150?” because I’ve always been my daughter’s biggest defender.

Sorcha goes, “Also, her crimes were sort of, like, an environmental protest?”

“Sort of, like, an environmental protest?” the woman goes, doing a pretty good impression – it has to be said – of my wife.

Claire’s there, “Nicola, can I remind you that you’re only, like, two days into your six-month probation here?”

“And what sentence did she get?” this – like she said – Nicola one goes.

I’m like, “200 hours of community service,” ever the proud dad, “which she completed.”

Nicola’s there, “Well, I got six months in prison – for stealing three pairs of yoga pants.”

Sorcha looks away. She doesn’t want to hear what’s coming next.

“Yes,” the woman goes, “from a Lululemon.”

Sorcha’s there, “Like I said, my daughter was actually attempting to save the planet. Claire, it was lovely to catch up with you. We’re going to head off.”

I’m there, “Are we not even getting coffees?”

Nicola goes, “You sanctimonious southside–”

Claire’s like, “Okay, that’s a verbal warning.”

But Nicola there, “–cow! And, by the way, your sunglasses are in your shirt pocket.”