We're having risotto for dinner. Risotto from the Italian word risot, which means to sell baby food to adults for
€2 per spoonful. We’ll know that the country is back on its feet again when we’re all suddenly back eating it.
Sorcha goes, “So who was the Valentine’s cord from?”
The woman is like Sarah Lund. Misses nothing.
“Valentine’s cord?” I make the mistake of going.
And she’s like, “I’m not a fool, Ross. You practically ran down to the letter box this morning and then I saw you hide something inside your shirt.”
"Oh, that Valentine's cord – yeah, no, it was unanimous."
“So who sent it to you?”
“I told you, I don’t know. That’s the meaning of the word unanimous, Sorcha.”
"It's from her, isn't it?"
Her, just to fill you in, is Abnoba Kennedy, the deputy head of Commercial Lettings with Hook, Lyon and Sinker, who has a bit of a crush on the old Rossmeister General.
I'm like, "Who's her, Babes?"
“You know who I mean, Ross.”
“Yeah, no, I think I know who you’re talking about now.”
“She’s very good-looking.”
“I have to admit, I’ve never really thought about her in that way.”
I would let Mathieu Bastareaud punch me in the face for an hour-and-a-half just to drink the runoff from the washing machine that cleaned her smalls.
Sorcha goes, “I’m just wondering what kind of a girl sends a Valentine’s cord to the home of a man she knows is married?”
“It’s just a bit of hormless fun, Babes. She’s one smitten kitten, in fairness to the girl.”
“And I suppose you did nothing to encourage that?”
“I’m a people person, Sorcha.”
“A people person?”
"That's the expression I'm using… Risotto for dinner, is it? And they said Ireland was focked for generations to come!"
That’s when Honor suddenly steps into the kitchen.
“Was there any post?” she goes.
I laugh and I’m like, “Don’t mention the war, Honor! A cord for me! It looks like your old man’s still got a few moves!”
I’m pulling up my sleeves to kiss my guns when Honor suddenly turns on her heel without saying a word – there’s no “Fair focks!”, no “Fully deserved!”, no “Go, the Rossmeister!” – and back up the stairs she stomps.
Sorcha goes, "Oh my God, Ross, are you really that insensitive?"
“Er,” I go, “I’m tempted to say yes, Babes, because I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“She was asking did any Valentine’s cords arrive for her!”
“They didn’t, though. There was just one. For me.”
“Do you not remember what it was like to be that age and to have a crush on someone?”
“Who’s she got a crush on?”
“Are you blind? Lindsay, of course!”
“Lindsay? I didn’t think she had feelings for him. I thought they just liked getting together to do evil works.
"Oh my God, certain things are storting to suddenly add up now? We were in Dundrum last weekend and she queued up to pay for something with her own money."
“She never pays for anything with her own money. Alorm bells must have been certainly ringing.”
“I asked her what she was buying and she pushed this little bag inside her jacket and said, ‘You don’t have to make such a big deal of it!’ and then she called me a knob and stormed off – oh my God – all embarrassed.”
Sorcha suddenly hands me my cor keys and goes, “Ross, you know what you have to do.”
I’m like, “Errr…”
“Go out and buy your daughter a Valentine’s cord.”
“What? She wouldn’t want one from me.”
"It's not going to be from you. We'll write it ourselves and sign it from a mystery admirer."
“I don’t know, Babes – isn’t lying supposably wrong?”
“So is growing up with self-esteem issues.”
“Here, while I’m out, I could get something to go with the risotto – like fish and chips, or two snack boxes.”
“Just go, Ross – we’ll have the dinner when you come back.”
So off I head, into the night.
Shopping for a cord the night before Valentine’s Day is a bit like dating in your early 40s – most of what’s left out there is wrecked-looking.
Seven petrol stations I end up having to try before I find a decent cord. It’s got, like, a rose on the front and then a lot of romanticky stuff inside it. I sit in the forecourt and I write the thing. It’s like, “To Honor, with lots of love, from your mystery admirer x.”
Luckily, my handwriting is actually like an eight-year-old's?
So the next trick, when I get home, is to convince Honor that someone stuck the thing through the letterbox. “Honor!” I shout up the stairs.
She appears on the landing. She’s like, “What?” always suspicious.
“Yeah, no, I just found this in the letterbox. It’s for you. I’ve no idea what it is. It’s a genuine mystery.”
She comes down the stairs, snatches it out of my hand, looks at it, then disappears back upstairs to her room.
And that ends up being that, until about an hour later, when I'm scraping my risotto into the Brabantia – and I suddenly notice the cord, ripped up, at the bottom of the bin. I reach in and I pull out the four pieces and that's when I notice that it hasn't even been opened yet?
Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, I wonder does she know it was you?”
I’m like, “Me? You were the one who told me to do it.”
“I don’t want this to fracture her trust in us as adult role models. Ross, call her downstairs.”
Which is, again, what I end up having to do.
Ten seconds later, Honor reappears in the kitchen, going, “Sorry, I’m trying to think up bitchy things to say to Little Mix on Twitter – will this take long?”
Sorcha goes, "You tore up your cord, Honor, without even opening it?"
Honor just shrugs. She’s like, “Er, it’s a Valentine’s cord? Valentine’s Day is for knobs, losers and saps.”
“I know you don’t think that,” Sorcha goes. “I saw you buying a cord last weekend in Dundrum.”
And Honor goes, “That? That was a joke. I sent it to Dad so that he’d think he had a mystery admirer.”
They both look at me and they go… well, you know what they go.
They go, “Hill! Air!” ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE