So I’m in the gorden with the triplets and we’re flinging the old shaved coconut around. Brian’s got a bit of a weakness when it comes to passing off his left hand and I’m determined to fix it before it becomes a habit that he can’t break.
I’m like, “Dude, you’re not putting enough spin on it – that’s why you’re not getting any distance out of it.”
“Fock you!” he goes, because he’s a bit of a hothead like his dad.
I'm watching Leo kick the heads off Sorcha's roses. His technique is all over the place
And that's when my phone all of a sudden rings. It ends up being – totally random – Sorcha's old dear, who I can honestly say I've never had a one-on-one conversation with, except for the time I rang her from the boot of her husband's Volvo S90 when he was threatening to take the handbrake off and let it roll off the edge of Dalkey Quarry.
"What's the story?" I go. "I'm kind of, like, busy here?"
She’s like, “Ross, it’s your father – now, don’t panic!”
While this conversation is taking place, I’m watching Leo kick the heads off Sorcha’s roses. His technique is all over the place.
I'm there, "Your standing foot is too close to the torget, Leo – that's why you're not transferring your body weight through it."
Sorcha’s old dear goes, “Ross, are you listening to me?”
“Not really . . . Leo, measure your steps – four backwards and three to the side, all of equal length.”
“Ross,” the woman goes, “your father is . . . displaying symptoms.”
I’m like, “He’s what?”
“Like I said, I don’t want you to panic. He woke up yesterday with a temperature.”
“A temperature?”
“It could be nothing. It’s probably nothing.”
“And where is he now?”
"He's self-isolating in the spare room – obviously, he's keen not to pass it on to me. That's if he has this thing. Which we don't know yet."
It smells like something my old dear would drink out of a hipflask while standing at the ladies' tee box
“The spare room, you say?”
“I’m leaving his meals on a tray outside the door.”
“Okay,” I go. “I’m on my way.”
She’s like, “I think that’s a disastrous idea.”
“Yeah, that’s what you said to Sorcha when she told you that we were engaged. Luckily, I don’t care what you think. Never have. Come on, goys, we’re getting in the cor.”
So that's what we end up doing? I throw them into the back of the X5 and point it in the direction of – yeah, no – Brittas Bay.
Forty-five minutes later, I pull into the driveway of the Lalors’ holiday home, which my old man and Sorcha’s old dear have been using as a – vomit – love nest for the past three weeks.
I tell the goys to wait in the cor, then I get out, pull on my mask and ring the doorbell. Sorcha’s old dear opens the door.
She goes, “I’m begging you not to do this. Please go home.”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, that’s what you said to Sorcha as she was walking up the aisle! Where’s this famous spare room of yours?”
“It’s down there on the left – well, at least sanitise!”
I whip out my bottle of alcohol gel, squirt some into my palm and rub my two hands together. It smells like something my old dear would drink out of a hipflask while standing at the ladies’ tee box.
I morch down the hallway and I push the door, not even bothering to knock. The old man is on the phone, going, “And a thousand euros on Mozzarella in the 3.30 at Hexham!”
I’m there, “Feeling better, are we?”
Of course, when he sees me, he ends up nearly having a hort attack. He hangs up suddenly and goes, “Ross! Wh-, Wh-, Wh . . .”
I’m like, “What the fock am I doing here?”
“Well, yes – it’s not safe, don’t you know!”
“I’m wearing a mask, dude, and I’m more than two metres. Sorcha’s old dear said you had symptoms.”
“That’s right! Darned thing!”
“Symptoms, as in?”
“Well, a temperature really! Plus, I’ve lost my appetite!”
“Sorcha’s old dear said she’s been leaving your meals on a tray outside the door.”
“Oh, I barely pick at them, Ross! Barely pick at them!”
“Interesting. Very interesting.”
I make my way over to the window and I look out. The goys have got out of the cor. Leo is kicking the heads off Sorcha’s old dear’s roses. I open the window and I pull down my mask.
There, underneath the covers, is a glass of XO big enough to soak your feet in up to the ankles
“The point of contact should be the bone at the base of your big toe,” I go. “And, remember, your kicking foot should finish up pointing in the direction of the ball as it reaches the highest points of its orc.”
“Fock you!” Leo goes.
“God, I really should set up a skills school. I’m a born teacher.”
"I've always said it!" the old man goes. "Well, thank you very much for popping by to check on the Old Dad, as you say yourself! Ross, you're standing a little close to me there, don't you think?"
I suddenly grab the top of his duvet and I pull it back. And there, underneath the covers, is a glass of XO big enough to soak your feet in up to the ankles.
I'm like, "I focking knew it!"
He’s there, “It’s purely for medicinal purposes, Kicker!”
“Oh my God, you’re totally faking it!”
He knows there’s no point in lying to me.
He goes, “I just needed a break, Ross.”
I’m like, “A break? From what?”
“From Sorcha’s mother.”
I end up just laughing.
I’m there, “Oh, you’ve lost your appetite all right!”
"She's just so bloody – well, I don't know what she is! All I know is, I can't stand to be around her anymore."
Again, I laugh. No choice in the matter.
I'm there, "You were in love with her three weeks ago," and, as I'm saying it, I realise that we're not that – I've made this word up – dissimilar?
“Ross,” he goes, “I’m afraid I’ve made a dreadful mistake!”
And I’m there, “Well, as the woman said to me the night I rang her from the boot of her husband’s Volvo, this is between the two of you now.”