My phone rings while I’m doing my sit-ups – five hundred – in the living room. It’s, like, a number I don’t recognise, but I answer it anyway. A woman in a singsong voice goes, “Hi, this is Julie from the Mastercard Fraud Team.”
I’m there, “Hello, Julie from the Mastercard Fraud Team,” flirting my orse off with her.
I’ll never change. I don’t think anyone would want me to.
She goes, “I’m ringing because we’ve noticed some unusual activity on your account recently. Do you mind if I run through some recent purchases with you?”
She’s got a lovely tone to her voice. I’m there, “Yeah, no, fire away, Julie.”
“Okay,” she goes, “there’s one from this morning from Harrods dot com for £849 sterling.”
“What?”
"There's another one from last night – again it's Harrods dot com – for £975 sterling. There's one from the day before yesterday for Ticketmaster dot com – that's for €180. There was also a purchase made that same day – Tiffany & Co…"
“Tiffany. Holy…”
“That was for €760. Then there’s Brown Thomas – an online purchase – for €1,400. Then the same day there’s another purchase from a website called Petit Tresor dot com and that’s for €770.”
“I don’t believe this.”
"Are you confirming that there has been fraud on this account?"
“No. That’s not fraud. I don’t know of any thief who could work their way through my money that quickly. That kind of spending could only be the work of either a wife or a daughter.”
“Right.”
“And the chief suspect in this case is the latter of the two.”
“Would you like me to put a block on that card?”
"No, because she'd make my life a bloody misery. As parents, we've decided that it's easier to let her have stuff she wants. Dreamworks are thinking of making a cartoon based on our parenting methods. It's called How to Train Your Wagon.
She laughs, in fairness to the girl.
Body. Looks. Sense of humour. If I had a brain, I’d be the full package.
I tip down to the kitchen. Sorcha is working on a speech she's planning to deliver at the Terenure and District Allotment Holders (TADAH!) annual dinner dance this weekend. Kennet has written the entire thing out in – I think they're called – phonetics?
I go, “Our daughter has just put five Ks on my credit cord.”
Sorcha’s going, “Coddyflower… Coddyflower… Turden nips… What did you say?”
“Yeah, no, five grandingtons. A racehorse would be cheaper to run than a daughter.”
“Ross, you need to talk to her.”
“I know. I’m already dreading it. Where is she, by the way?”
“She’s upstairs. She has a play date with Lindsay.”
I’m like, “Another one? That kid spends more time in this house than I do.”
Just to bring you up to speed, Lindsay is this friend of Honor’s – and yes, it’s a boy! – who she’s, like, totally besotted with and who’s totally besotted with her. It’s like any other innocent childhood crush, except they spend hours together on Honor’s computer, sending hurtful Tweets to celebrities to try to get a reaction from them.
I’m there, “Sorcha, why is he always here?”
She goes, “They’re friends, Ross.”
"Yeah, but Honor never seems to get invited to his gaff? Have you noticed, when his old dear drops him off here, the speed she goes out those gates? Seriously, Sorcha, if I didn't know better I'd say she was dumping him on us."
“Why would she do that, Ross?”
“Er, have you met him?”
“Go and talk to Honor. Tell her that running up bills like that is not acceptable for a girl of eight.”
I trudge up the stairs – like I said – dreading the confrontation. I knock on the door of her room and wait for permission to enter.
Lindsay – he’s got a blond, pudding bowl haircut – sees me out of the corner of his eye and, under his breath, he goes, “This focking idiot again.”
I’m like, “Excuse me?” thinking he’s going to deny saying anything.
Except he doesn't? Instead, he actually shouts at me. He goes, "What do you want? We're about two Tweets away from tipping Selena Gomez over the edge here."
I’m there, “I just need to speak to my daughter.”
“We’ve put, like, weeks of work into this one. Make it quick.”
So I go, “Honor, I just wanted to talk to you about, em, all that stuff you put on my credit cord.”
Honor’s like, “What about it?”
“Well, five Ks is a lot of money. And I suppose, looking at the bigger picture, we’re trying to teach you the lesson that, you know, you can’t just have everything you want. Otherwise, you’re going to grow up thinking that there’ll always be someone there to pick up the tab for you. I’m going to have to ring my old man now and ask him for the five Ks to pay this off.”
Lindsay – again, without taking his eyes off the computer screen – goes, “Are you going to let him talk to you like that?”
I’m like, “What, Lindsay, I suppose you’re allowed to do and say what you want at home, are you?”
He’s there, “My parents have learned to stay out of my way.”
Better than that, I think – they’ve discovered a way of outsourcing their misery.
He goes, “Honor, did you know, in the States, you can, like, legally divorce your mum and dad.”
Honor’s like, “Oh my God – really?”
I’m telling you, you wouldn’t want to be sensitive.
He goes, “On the grounds that they’re too stupid to parent you. Your case would be decided in seconds.”
She laughs.
I’m there, “I think I’ve made my point, Honor. Go easy on the purchases.”
Honor goes, "Yeah, giving a fock what you think isn't actually in my job description?"
Lindsay laughs and goes, “Nicely put, Honor.”
I tip down the stairs, feeling utterly defeated. Into the kitchen I go. Sorcha has a face on her like she’s being held a gunpoint by someone I just can’t see yet.
“Lindsay’s mum was just on the phone,” she goes. “She wants to know can Lindsay stay here for two or three nights.”
I’m like, “What?”
“She said they’re snowed in, Ross.”
“Snowed in? They live in Dalkey. It hasn’t snowed for a week.”