I’m a bit scooby dubious about my birthday present – as in, why did it cost only six thousand snots?
'OH MY GOD," Honor goes, staring at the cover of Heat, "is Jordan wearing that dress or is that dress wearing Jordan?" Me, I'm staring at the front of the Mail, cracking my hole laughing. "Look at the state of Jackie Healy-Rae," I go. "He looks like he escaped from an old folks' home after stealing the clothes of the man who comes to give out the Eucharist."
She's there, "And, oh my God, whenis Jennifer Aniston going to build a bridge? You lost Brad Pitt to someone way hotter. Er, deal, girl!" And of course I can't helpbut chuckle? This is me and my daughter, by the way, in Eason's in Dundrum Town Centre, enjoying an afternoon of unsupervised quality time. And I'm looking at her, wondering was Ias clued-in at five years old as sheobviously is? I'm forced to admit that I possibly wasn't, and I blame my old man for that. My earliest memory is of standing in our back gorden in Glenageary slash Sallynoggin, with him throwing that Gilbert ball at me. I think I'd racked up eight concussions by the time I was five. A lot of people would say that actually explains a lot.
I suddenly laugh out loud. "Kerry Katona on Ice," I go. "Am I the only one who read that headline and thought she was back on the gear?" Honor laughs. She's like, "That's lollers, Daddy," which is an amazing thing for any, I suppose, south Dublin father to hear. "That is, like, solollers!"
We wander back to the cor pork and I watch her, walking three steps ahead of me, like a Mini-Me version of her old dear, struggling with her Cath Kidston, DG, House of Fraser, Fran Jane and Sunglass Hut International bags. Sorcha reckons I spoil her. And, yeah, I possibly do. All I'm trying to do, though, is give her the happy childhood that Inever had? I check out her happy little face in the rear-view mirror. Even though she's long outgrown her child seat she still insists on sitting in the back. She says she likes to feel like she's being chauffeured.
On the drive back to Sorcha's I have some of my famously deep thoughts about the whole, I suppose, parenthoodthing? As in, if you had a really rubbish old man like I had, then you end up being an amazing one yourself. Heforgot my birthday a few weeks back. Can you actually believe that? Oh, he knows the date of the general election, because he's been texting it to me all week, with comments like, "Let the people have their revolution – see are they any happier." But the birthday of his only son? No, that'd be too much to keep in his head.
We pull up outside Newtownpork Avenue. I turn around in my seat. “Okay, Honor, let’s get our stories straight. What did we have for lunch?”
"Sushi. Er, puke?"
“Very good. And what did we very definitely not have?”
“Eddie Rocket’s.”
"Well done." Sorcha opens the door, cops the shopping bags and gives me what would have to be described as a disapproving look. Honor just goes, "Oh! MyGod! You should see the photograph of Cat Deeley in Heat. Dressed to kill? Er, dressed to spill, more like. It's like, whatevs!" and morches straight into the kitchen.
Sorcha just goes, "Your dad is here." I end up losing it a bit. I'm like, "What does hewant? It's not another rant about how Brian Cowen is the most wronged Irish politician since Michael Collins?"
“He’s here to see you, Ross.”
"Who even isMichael Collins?"
“Ross, just hear him out.”
I just shrug, roysh, then follow her into the kitchen, where Honor is talking him through her various purchases, telling him that peplum dresses are going to be rocking the catwalks all over Europe this spring.
"Hello there, Kicker," he tries to go. And I'm obviously there, "What do youwant?" Except he ends up, like, totally disorming me by waving a set of cor keys in front of my eyes and going, "A belated – inverted commas – happy birthday!"
“Okay,” I go, happy to hear him out, “this better be good.”
“Your birthday present, Ross, it’s parked outside.”
“The only thing I saw porked outside was a shitty 92WW three-serious Beemer.” He just looks at me with a big stupid smile, then motions for me to follow him outside, which I do.
" This?" I go. "You're telling me thisis what you bought for me for my 31st?"
“Do you like it?”
“Like it? I was barely even born when it was built.”
"It's Seán FitzPatrick's old BMW," he goes. "I bought it for you – what's this they say – online?" I'm like, "What?" genuinely meaning it. "Oh, Sorcha helped me. Gave me a tutorial on how these internet auctions work. They were taking bids, you see, for the right to press the button to crush old Seánie's pride and joy. Well, I was, of course, appalled. I said it to Hennessy. That car is a bloody monument, I said, to the good times we enjoyed in this country and seem in far too much of a hurry to forget. It should be preserved. So I put in a bid to buy the bloody thing – €6,000, Ross!"
I open the driver’s seat and climb in. It’s still got that new-cor smell. “Oh,” he goes, suddenly all misty-eyed, “driving it out here today brought back a memory or two, I don’t mind telling you. Seánie and I, driving home from Delgany, having just played 18, tiring the bloody stars with our talk of everything, from the overregulation of the banking sector to the good old days when a try was worth four points, a conversion three and kicking was considered an art, a bloody art.”
I pull the door shut, just to drown out his voice, then I run my hand along the polished leather interior and the walnut detailing. I’d actually forgotten what a classic cor the old three-serious was. Driving Seán FitzPatrick’s old motor. The idea is suddenly growing on me. And it’s like Honor said to me, as she was wrapping her face around a Classic in Ed’s: the beauty of vintage is that it never gets old.
So I'm sitting there, thinking, "Six grandingtons, though? Why so cheap?" when I suddenly spot two dudes on the other side of Newtownpork Avenue, basically pointingat me? The next thing I know, one of them throws a full can of Coke at my windscreen and shouts, "Wanker!"
And what can I do except wind down the window and tell my old man, “It’s perfect.”
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