"I think I've finally figured it out," I go – and, yeah, no, I'm talking about the latest restrictions. "If I set the alorm for, like, 2am and give the kids their breakfast, that'll mean we can move lunchtime back to, say, 8am, which will mean that I'll have my stomach properly lined when I stort drinking at 10am. I'll hit the pub at, like, midday for the usual eight hours, Eddie Rockets at ten-past-eight, bed by nine, wake up at two in the morning with a hangover and repeat the cycle."
"Or," Sorcha goes, "you could maybe just not drink? Have you considered doing dry January?"
I say literally nothing in response to this. In fact, there hasn't been a silence like it since Leinster lost the semi-final of the 2006 Heineken Cup and Sorcha suggested I might consider supporting another team.
His dad is an anti-vaxxer even though he's double-vaxxed and boosted himself
We're sitting in the waiting room of the doctor's surgery, by the way, about to get our booster jabs. And it's at that exact moment that our GP – the famous Ballbag Berry – sticks his head into the waiting room and calls our names. Ballbag was a sub on the famous Belvedere College none-in-a-row team back in the day. He never got a minute of game time and was usually seen carrying around a sack of Gilberts – thus the nickname.
"Ross," he goes, leading us into his, I don't know, consulting room, "could you maybe not call me Ballbag in front of my patients?"
Yeah, no, he's totally up himself. Some might say that'd be typical Belvo. It's a fair bet that we won't get out of here without hearing how many taoiseachs, orchbishops and Cheltenham Gold Cup winners the school produced while they weren't winning Leinster Schools Senior Cups.
“So,” he goes, as we take a seat, “you’re both well, are you?”
"Yes, no complaints," Sorcha goes. "We've both been very careful. Not that I'm victim-blaming people who have contracted Covid? I'm just saying that we've observed all of Tony's guidelines to the letter with regord to wearing masks at all times and communicating with our loved ones through walls."
Once a Mount Anville head girl, always a Mount Anville head girl.
“And you’ve no objection to getting the booster?” the dude goes, preparing the injections.
I'm like, "Yeah, no, I've got one or two questions about possible side-effects?"
Sorcha sighs and rolls her eyes.
“His dad is an anti-vaxxer,” she goes, “even though he’s double-vaxxed and boosted himself.”
I’m there, “Look, I don’t want to end up with a fat forehead and a hump on my back. I’m doing a series of rugby skills videos for TikTok in the New Year and I need to look the port.”
The dude hands us both a sheet of paper and goes, "There are some possible side-effects, which you should appraise yourself of first. There's also a questionnaire there – tell me if the answer to any of those questions is yes."
I give it the old left-to-right. It’s like, “Have you ever had anaphylaxis? Do you have a history of mastocytosis? Have you ever had myocarditis? Have you ever had pericarditis?”
As usual, after about five seconds of reading, I’m so bored that I’d agree to literally anything. So I tick no to every question, then I sign on the bottom line and Ballbag – who was unfortunate that Belvo already had two very decent tightheads that year – gives me the shot in my orm.
"Of course, you'd have no aversion to needles," he goes, which is a dig at me over the whole, I don't know, performance-enhancing drugs thing?
I’m there, “At least I didn’t go to a school on practically O’Connell Street.”
And he’s like, “Remind me again how many taoisigh, archbishops and Cheltenham Gold Cup winners went to Castlerock College?”
That’s when Sorcha – totally out of left-field – goes, “Ross, can you step outside for a moment?”
I’m like, “It was just a bit of rugby banter, babes.”
She’s there, “I want to speak to the doctor – alone.”
"Er, why?" I go.
"It's focking private," she pretty much roars at me? "Just leave the room, okay?"
I’m there, “Fair enough,” and I step outside, wondering – quite literally – what the fock?
So I’m, like, sitting in the waiting room and I’m looking at the walls. There’s, like, a poster of a cat hanging on to a branch, with the caption, “Hang in there!” and then a poster of a racehorse with the caption, “Strength and Beauty!” and then an advertisement for a faecal incontinence treatment that’s described as revolutionary.
Then, beside that, there’s a notice saying, “Please tell your doctor if you believe you might be pregnant.”
And my blood turns instantly cold. I'm thinking, is that what she wanted to talk to the doctor about? Oh, please, God, no. I can't become a father again at, like, 42. I can't even cope with the four we already have. I suddenly feel like I need that revolutionary faecal incontinence treatment myself.
The door to the surgery is thrown open and Sorcha morches out, tears streaming down her face. She walks past me and then outside without saying a word. I follow her out to the cor.
“I take it you didn’t get the booster?” I go, as I sit into the driver’s seat.
She’s like, “No, I didn’t.”
“Sorcha,” I go, taking her hand, “I’m as terrified as you are – but we’ll face this together.”
She’s there, “I’m not terrified, Ross, I’m embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed? In terms of?”
“I don’t want people to know I do that.”
“Er, right.”
"I'm actually mortified right now! What are people going to say if they find out?"
"Er, they're bound to find out? Sorcha, neither of us expected this, but it could be the makings of us."
“What do you mean?”
“It’s another little baby, Sorcha.”
She looks at me like I looked at her on the morning of the 2006 Heineken Cup final when she handed me the present of a Munster jersey.
"I'm not pregnant!" she goes – I think the word is, like, incredulously?
I’m there, “So, er, why didn’t you get your booster?”
“Because,” she goes, “I had my lips done.”
I’m like, “Your what?”
“I had filler injected into my lips – as a Christmas present to myself. He told me I have to come back in two weeks.”
I stort the cor, feeling a massive, massive, massive wave of relief wash over me.