Sorcha's dragging me to Ikea, and it's obvious she's still got the hots for me. But nothing cools a man faster than the thought of wrestling with some flatpack furniture
THAT BIG, GRINNING GOON out of Sex and the City has a lot to answer for - and I don't just mean teaching women that sex is something that two people can enjoy. Ever since that ridiculous movie came out, every goy I know has been under serious pressure to provide his wife slash girlfriend with a) a pair of diamond Manolos and b) an actual walk-in wardrobe.
I'm under pressure too, despite being young, free and separated, with divorce proceedings pending. Sorcha rings me up the other day and tells me she's decided to convert one of the spare bedrooms into - get this - a closet. Naturally enough, my immediate reaction is, "Er, and this affects me how exactly?" and then she tells me.
"You're coming with me to Ikea," she goes. "In Belfast." Of course she says it like it's the most natural thing in the world. I go, "Belfast? Would you not wait till they come to actual Ireland?" and she's like, "Ross, could you not be a bit more supportive of my dreams?"
Eventually, roysh, I agree to go with her, thinking, anything to get her away from the anti-Storbucks protest outside the old dispensary in Dalkey.
So, ten o'clock the next morning, I'm in the sack and the next thing I hear is this, like, horn blaring outside. I look out the window and there, porked at the entrance to Pilot View, is a big, white Jason Donna.
I'm about to shout something, like. "Do you know what time it is?" or, "You're not in Sallynoggin now!" when all of a sudden my eyes adjust to the light and I notice that, sitting there in the driver's seat, is my STBX.
"You rented it?" I go, wiping the dirt off the front passenger seat. "Is this recession going to turn us all into animals? I mean, what's next, Sorcha? Are you going to put Honor on the sunbeds before she makes her Communion?" She tells me to shut up and put my seatbelt on, which is what I end up doing.
The drive up is actually alright, as in the conversation? It's actually just like old times, with Sorcha saying that Jennifer Aniston has - oh my God - so lost the plot and that Erika has storted seeing this Good On Paper goy who's a ringer for Brody Jenner and that she's thinking of buying this amazing Hale Bob dress even though busy prints can be such a nightmare to accessorise.
It's obvious that she still wants me and it's weird, roysh, because at moments like this - when it's just the two of us? - it's possible to forget about all the bad shit that went down between us and actually picture us back together again.
"It's hard to believe there was ever a war," she goes and sort of, like, smiles at me. I put my hand on her knee and it's like she suddenly remembers herself. "I mean, no checkpoints, no soldiers - it doesn't even feel like we've entered a different country, does it?" In fairness, I felt like we'd entered a different country when we passed the turn-off for Dundrum on the M50. I don't say that, though. Instead, I go, "Don't run away from your feelings," which is an old line of mine.
"Ross," she goes, "don't." But there's no doubt that the old magic is still there, as we spot the big yellow and blue sign on the left after Belfast airport.
Ikea, for those of you who've never been, is a complete and utter mare. The actual shop floor reminds me of the battle scene out of Bravehort - except with 10 times more make-up and 20 times more aggression.
They give you a little pencil and a docket to fill in what you want, like in Argos or the bookies. "They're going to focking love this in Ballymun," I go, but Sorcha's too lost in her own little world to acknowledge what you would have to admit is a cracking line.
"Carrie's had bars like this for her shoes," she's going, "and a rail here and here. And this was all shelves. And there was a full-length mirror here. And lights - oh my God, I have to have lights . . ."
To cut a long story short, four hours later, we're back on the road, with the van full, me at the wheel and Sorcha sketching furiously in her A4 pad. "My dresses are going to go here," she's going. "And I got one of those inserts, so this drawer here is going to be for, like, belts. This entire section here is going to be for, like, tops . . ."
And suddenly, roysh, I'm remembering, like, the other side of marriage? I'm picturing myself at four o'clock in the morning, blind from looking at assembly instructions, my fingers covered in welts and calluses from trying to grip that Allen key. I'm remembering that Ikea is the Swedish word for divorce and that flatpack means, literally, domestic homicide.
So when we eventually pull up on Newtownpork Avenue, I carry all of the packages into the gaff for her - because I'm nothing if not a gentleman - then I ask her to call me an Andy McNab. I see, like, the immediate hurt in her eyes. "Are you not going to build it for me?" she goes.
I'm there, "Er, yeah, I just want to go home and get changed. Can't do it in chinos." She's like, "You are coming back, aren't you?" and I'm like, "Of course - would I lie to you?"
But it's like, sorry, Sorcha - Big, I am not. Well, not in that way.
