The old dear arrives at the door, smelling like a – literally – distillery tour. She has so much filler in her face that she looks like she’s had herself embalmed to save us the trouble when she finally pops it.
She goes, “Hello, Dorling.”
And I’m like, “Please don’t smile. I’ve just eaten an omelette.”
She’s there, “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
Sorcha is standing at the island with a boning knife in one hand and an espresso in the other, grinning at us like a serial killer
The old dear goes, ‘I don’t want my vital work on the campaign Move Funderland to the Northside to die with me’
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
So – yeah, no – I do?
She goes, “I’ve come to see the children.”
I’m like, “Oh, for their birthday?” and I can see that she’s suddenly thrown by the question.
She’s there, “Their, em, birthday, yes. Gosh, I can’t believe that another one has come around!”
I’m like, “Yeah, it was three months ago, you ridiculous-faced trollop.”
“Well, there’s no need for that kind of talk. Can’t a woman visit her beautiful, beautiful granddaughters?”
“Yeah, they’re boys?”
“Yes, that’s what I said – grandsons.”
“Don’t worry, I know exactly why you’re here. You’ve thrown your hat in the ring for the Late Late gig. But you’re worried about doing the Toy Show. Because you can talk to anyone – faking sincerity has never been an issue for you – but not children. You hate children and children hate you.”
She doesn’t even try to deny it. She’s like, “It was your father’s idea. He said that the Toy Show was the most important television show of the year.”
I’m there, “Which is down to Tubs repeatedly smashing it out of the ballpork year after year.”
“Well, Chorles thinks I need to work on my rapport with children. To try to look less terrified around them. With their mucky hands and their snotty noses.”
“The idea of you hosting The Late Late Toy Show is so funny that I’m actually going to allow this. Come on, they’re in their room.”
She follows me up the stairs and I can tell that she’s nervous.
She’s like, “And they all have names, don’t they, Ross?”
I’m there, “Yeah, we call them Unit One, Unit Two and Unit Three.”
She goes, “Lovely, lovely names.”
Out of the corner of her mouth, she goes, ‘Don’t let them hug me, Ross. I don’t want my cashmere to go all bally’
I push open their bedroom door and in we go.
At the top of her voice, she goes, “Hello there!” like me asking non-English speaker for directions. “Which one is this, Ross?”
I’m there, “That’s a life-sized cordboard cut-out of a Minion. How many have you had today?”
She goes, “I’m just nervous, that’s all.”
I’m like, “That’s them over there, rolling around on the floor, kicking the s**t out of each other.”
She’s there, “Oh.”
I’m like, “Goys, stop fighting for a minute, will you? Your grandmother has come to see you.”
Out of the corner of her mouth, she goes, “Don’t let them hug me, Ross. I don’t want my cashmere to go all bally.”
But it’s too late. Brian, Johnny and Leo come chorging across the room and they throw their orms around the woman.
She’s like, “Oh! Look at this, Ross!”
They’re like, “Hi, Grandma!”
She goes, “Look, Ross, I’m connecting with them! I’m connecting with them!”
I’m there, “Yeah, you don’t have to keep saying it. Just chill out, will you? They’re kids. You show them a bit of love and then – as if by magic – you get it back.”
She storts patting them on the head like they’re dogs.
I’m like, “Goys, why don’t you show your grandmother your toys?”
Brian grabs her by the hand and drags her across the bedroom to their giant toy box and he pulls out a T-rex.
He goes, “Roooaaarrr!!!” and the thing’s eyes light up red.
“Look at that!” she goes. “Where did you get that?”
Brian’s like, “From you.”
I’m there, “You gave it to him for Christmas.”
Yeah, no, she’s get her cleaner to buy all of her presents.
“Oh, yes,” she tries to go, “I recognise it now! He’s a scary monster, isn’t he?”
“It’s not a monster, it’s a dinosaur!” Leo goes, then he shows her his brontosaurus.
She looks at me. She’s like, “Ross–?”
I’m there, “Yes, you bought that one for them as well.”
“No,” she goes, “I was going to ask does this one needs his N, A, P, P, Y changed?”
I’m like, “Er, he’s seven years old. Fully house-trained.”
“It’s just I thought I smelled–”
“It’s just a fort. They fort all the time – it’s from all the rubbish they eat.”
“I see,” she goes, then she turns to Johnny and she’s like, “Your father never wore a nappy, you know?”
Johnny smiles at her, then looks at me for confirmation, except I’ve no idea what she’s banging on about.
She goes, “I just couldn’t be bothered buying them. He used to just toddle around the house, pooing on the floor, then Rosario – our cleaner back then – used to use little baggies to pick up after him. She eventually taught him to go outside and do it in the gorden.”
Brian, Johnny and Leo crack their holes laughing. Leo goes, “Daddy did a s**t in the garden!”
I’m there, “Yeah, maybe don’t tell me any more stories about my childhood?”
Johnny looks her in the eyes and goes, “You’re funny!”
And she’s like, “Am I?” like she’s never considered this possibility before.
He nods his little head, then goes, “Play Lego!”
He reaches into the toy box and pulls out the plastic box with the – yeah, no – Lego in it. He rips off the lid and tips everything on to the bedroom floor.
‘Let’s build a fab-a-lous house,’ she goes, ‘like the one I live in with your grandfather. You’ve been there, haven’t you?’ Johnny’s there, ‘No’
“Oh, look!” the old dear goes. “They’re like little bricks that you stick together!”
Seriously? She’s only finding out what Lego is now?
“Let’s make something!” Leo goes.
I’m like, “Leo, don’t pull out of your grandmother’s cordigan – it’s cashmere.”
The old dear goes, “I really don’t mind. It’s only a cordigan, isn’t it? I can buy another one,” and then – unbelievably – she gets down on her hands and knees and storts sorting through the pieces.
“Let’s build a fab-a-lous house,” she goes, “like the one I live in with your grandfather. You’ve been there, haven’t you?”
Johnny’s there, “No.”
And she’s like, “Well, you must come some time.”
I stand there for a good, like, five minutes, watching her play with my children the way she never played with me, then I realise that I’ve suddenly got, like, tears rolling down my cheeks?
I wipe them away with my hand just as the old dear turns her head and catches my eye. I’ve honestly never seen her look happier.
I’m like, “Do you want a drink?”
And she goes, “Tanqueray. No tonic.”
