Sorcha has ordered a skip. Yeah, no, that might not be big news where you live – but on Vico Road, Killiney, it’s, like, massive? Because it’s evidence that you’re up to something. And around here, there’s very little that escapes the attention of the local residents’ association, especially with their hourly drone flyovers looking for evidence of illegal building activity in the area.
I’m like, “Why have you even ordered that thing?”
And Sorcha’s there, “Because we needed to do, like, a major, major clear-out before we move out.”
Yeah, no, she’s still serious about knocking the gaff and turning it into, like, aportments.
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“But I have to say,” she goes, “that I thought there’d be a bigger fuss about it on the Vico Road Residents’ Association WhatsApp. I mean, we ordered a skip, Ross. That’s not usually the kind of thing that goes unremorked upon around here.”
Honor looks up from her laptop.
She goes, “They’ve probably set up a separate WhatsApp group to talk about our family.”
Sorcha thinks about this for a minute, then she’s like, “I think I’ll put out a message mentioning that we have a skip and it’s far from full if anyone has anything that they want to put into it.”
I’m there, “Why are you provoking people like this?”
But she goes, “I’m just being neighbourly, Ross,” whipping out her phone. “Just because we fell out on the issue of Killiney and Dalkey’s special zero building zoning status – and just because I was asked to leave the stort-of-summer borbecue – doesn’t mean I have to be as petty as them. Okay, I’ve sent the message. Oh my God, I wonder what the reaction is going to be?”
I turn around to Honor then and I’m like, “What are you up to? Trolling celebrities on Twitter again?”
She goes, “No, I’m playing tennis in Glenageary tomorrow against this woman,” and she turns her laptop around to show me a picture of – like she said – a woman. She’s in, like, her early 40s. I’m not going to comment on her looks – just average, if you forced me to do it. “Corina Brien. I’ve been drawn against her in the Joshua Pim Shield. And I’m trawling through her social media accounts looking for anything that might give me an advantage.”
I’m like, “In terms of what?”
“Well, for instance,” she goes, “according to her Facebook account, she was in Berlin for New Year’s Eve in 2019 and she slipped on ice and broke her left orm. There’s a photograph of her wearing a cast. Then, according to her Instagram account, they made a total mess of it when they were, like, resetting the bone, so she had to have another operation in 2021. Look, there she is sitting up in bed in Blackrock Clinic.”
I’m like, “Jesus, she’s not great without make-up, is she?” And I’m saying that with the greatest will in the world.
Sorcha goes, “So what are you, like, doing with this information, Honor?”
“Well, if she broke her left orm, then it’s going to be weak,” she goes. “So I’m going to keep hitting the ball in such a way that forces her to use her left backhand.”
“Oh! My! God!” Sorcha goes.
And I’m like, “I want to second what your old dear just said, Honor. People these day overpraise their kids. I mean, they piss on the floor of the National Gallery and they’ll tell you it’s ort. But you really are a genius, Honor. And we are so, so proud of you.”
“I’m not proud of her,” Sorcha goes. “This is absolutely disgusting behaviour. Honor, you can’t go through someone’s private information...”
But Honor’s like, “It’s not private. Her account is public. She’s a total sympathy junkie. One of those people who puts up a message saying, ‘I had the worst day ever today,’ just so people will ask her what’s wrong.”
I’m there, “I hate people like that. The focking nerve of them.”
“There’s, like, 200 photographs of her orm on Facebook alone,” she goes. “She even put up her X-rays. I had a look at them. It was a clean break across the radius. According to some medical websites I looked up, with that kind of injury, her orm will only ever regain about 60 per cent of its previous strength.”
I’m like, “Oh my God, Honor, I could literally die with pride right now?”
Sorcha goes, “Well, I think what you’re doing is despicable.”
Honor’s there, “That’s because you’re a mug when it comes to other people. I’m just using information that’s in the public domain.”
Sorcha’s like, “You’re taking advantage of someone’s misfortune to gain an advantage.”
I’m there, “Yeah, that’s called sport, Sorcha. Do you think Andy Farrell would hesitate to torget a particular player if he sensed a weakness there? Fr Fehily used to say that success was just ruthlessness spelt backwards.”
“Except it’s not?” Sorcha goes. “Success spelt backwards is, I don’t know… sseccus?”
“Well, he didn’t teach English, in fairness to him. He taught rugby and religion. Usually in the same class.”
Anyway, there the matter ends up resting – until, like, the following day, when there’s a ring on the doorbell and it ends up being the dude who’s come to take away the skip. The thing is, like, overflowing with TVs, fridges, kettles, toasters, blenders and Dyson air coolers that the neighbours have dumped in there after Sorcha’s message.
Except there ends up being a problem. The dude goes, “We’re not allowed to take electrical items.”
Sorcha’s there, “Excuse me?”
“It’s in the terms and conditions,” he goes. “No electrical items.”
Sorcha’s like, “But the thing is – oh my God, I’m not making this up – they’re not actually mine?”
“I’m very sorry,” he goes, “but I can’t take the skip away until you remove all the electrical items from it.”
“So what are we supposed to do with them?”
“You could take them to a recycling centre.”
“But that’s going to take, like, six or seven trips.”
“I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“So I’ve been, like, lumbered with everyone else’s junk?”
Behind us in the hallway, I hear Honor go, “Like I said, Mom – you’re a total mug.”
“Honor,” Sorcha goes, without even looking over her shoulder, “when are you playing that woman?”
Honor’s like, “Tomorrow afternoon.”
And Sorcha’s there, “I want to be there. And I want to see you grind her nose into the dirt.”
