There’s a familiar face in the kitchen, although I’m struggling to put a name to it.
“Ross,” Sorcha goes, “you remember Foraoise Farrell, don’t you? Holy Child Killiney?”
And that’s when the penny suddenly drops. Yeah, no, I was in UCD with her brother, Conor. We did the old Sportsman Dip course together – although the only sport we actually played, if I’m being honest, was pool while pissed.
Sorcha’s like, “We very nearly did an Erasmus year togather in Heidelberg.”
I go, "Yeah, no, I remember the girl. How the hell are you, Foraoise?" because I can't not be a chorming bastard?
But she’s just like, “Fine,” because my powers are useless on some girls.
“Foraoise’s an orchitacht,” Sorcha goes.
I’m there, “She’s a what?”
"An orchitacht ?"
“Sorry, I think I’m going to have to ask you to say that again, Sorcha.”
“An orchitacht! Oh my God, Ross!”
“Are you trying to say orchitecht.”
Yeah, no, when Mounties and HCK girls get together, they tend to ramp up the accents until they might as well be talking in Irish for all I understand of what’s going on.
"That's what I did say," Sorcha goes. "Awoord-wanning, I think I'm corract in saying?"
Foraoise just shrugs modestly. She didn't learn that in Holy Child Killiney.
“So,” the girl goes, “you said on the phane that you had an excishing projact that you wanted to talk to me abashe.”
Sorcha's there, "I do, Foraoise – okay, we're actually unterasted in, like, building something and we wanted to talk to the bast orchitacht in the Ireland. Your wabsite, by the way, is say, say good."
Jesus, if this keeps up, I’m going to have to ask Honor to come downstairs to translate.
"Oh my God, that's say nishe of you say," Foraoise goes. "So what are deeing – are you thinking of, like, extanding? Because I did, like, an amazing extansion for my mom and dod, with an actual atrium in the moddle of ush."
"No, we're nosh thinking in terms of an extansion?" Sorcha goes. "Are we, Ross?"
I’m there, “Don’t drag me into it. I might as well be at the focking theatre for all I understand of what’s going on.”
“We’re thinking in terms of, like, knocking the hase dane.”
"Knocking the hase dane?" Foraoise goes. "Are you talking about thus hase?"
Sorcha's like, "Yes, I'm very moch talking about thus hase."
“And whash are you gaying to push in uts plashe? Oh my God, I designed this amazing, amazing Mediterranean-style hase for a frand of my dod on Saval Pork Rade. It was actually, like, Venetian-style, except wuth Byzantine unfluences and a gorgeous, gooorgeous piazza.”
She storts forting about with her iPad then.
She goes, “There’s dafinitely a pocture of ush on my wabsishe.”
But Sorcha’s there, “We’re nosh unterasted in building a new hase, Foraoise. We want to build a block of aportments.”
Foraoise looks at her like she’s just said, “I’m about to borbecue next door’s Jack Russell – do you want a leg or a breast?”
“Aportments?” the girl goes. “What, here? On Vacay Rade?”
Sorcha’s like, “Yes, here, Foraoise – on Vacay Rade.”
The girl looks at me then, a smile frozen on her face, probably wondering why my wife isn't in some kind of secure facility.
“So, like, whash type of aportments,” she goes, “are you thanking in terms of?”
Sorcha’s like, “Affordable ones.”
“Affoyerdable-?”
“Thot’s roysh – affoyerdable. We think we could squeeze suxty, maybe saventy aportments onto thus sishe.”
I'm nosh asking you to halp me get plonning permassion. I'm just asking you will you be the orchitacht?
"Sorcha, I know you and I vorry, vorry nearly did an Erosmos year togather – but thus is, like, Vacay Rade we're talking abashe. You're navver, avver gaying to get plonning permassion for something like thash – nosh here!"
“I’m nosh asking you to halp me get plonning permassion. I’m just asking you will you be the orchitacht?”
Foraoise stares into space. She’s weighing up the likely consequences of having her name anywhere near the orchitechtural – slash, orchitachtural – drawings when the planning application is submitted.
She goes, “Sorcha, are you not, like, worried about what people are gaying to say?”
Sorcha’s like, “Whash, on the Dalkey Open Forum? I’m not scared of the Dalkey Open Forum.”
Everyone is scared of the Dalkey Open Forum.
Foraoise goes, "I'm talking abate the people who live on Vacay Rade. We're talking abate very, very powerful onterests."
Yeah, no, she’s not just thinking about all the work she’d lose. People have been disappeared for less.
Sorcha goes, "Does it really mosher what they think? I'm offering you a job, Foraoise. Do you want it, yes or nay?"
Foraoise stands up from the island.
She goes, “I’ll, em, hov a think abashe ush. Then I’ll come back to you, okay?”
The girl is out the door like me after a one-night stand.
I’m there, “You, er, know you’re never going to hear from her again, don’t you? She’s probably blocking your number right now.”
Again, like me after a one-night stand.
She’s there, “You were focking useless, by the way – taytally useless.”
I’m like, “I couldn’t keep up. It was like that time you brought me to The Abbey. I was focking dizzy listening to the two of you.”
She goes quiet then.
I'm like, "Sorcha, she possibly has a point – as in, maybe you should forget about the whole aportment thing. I mean, you're only doing it because you got the big F.O. at the Vico Road Residents Association stort-of-summer barbecue."
Sorcha just stares into space.
Then she goes, "You knay the reason we navver went on Erosmos togather in the ond? It was because Foraoise decided at the very last monnish to gay to, like, Salamanca with her HCK frands? She's always been a botch – a taytal, taytal botch."
And I’m like, “She’s gone, Sorcha. You can go back to talking in your normal voice now.”
