Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

The Castlerock College Christmas Fete has always been a massive event in the O’Carroll-Kelly social calendar.

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“Corlow?” Sorcha goes – clearly worried about me. “Why on earth do you want to drive all the way Corlow for a Christmas tree when we can buy one three minutes up the road in Terenure College?”

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Hey, as I always say, it’s better to be someone’s shot of tequila than everyone’s cup of tea.

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So – yeah, no – I’m in, like, the gorden, throwing the old Gilbert around with Brian, Johnny and Leo, except we can’t complete three passes without one of us dropping the ball and I’m wondering does it have anything to do with us living in Terenure now – as in, the general sense of failure that hangs over the place has somehow seeped into my children’s bones like arthritis.

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The school concert hall is absolutely rammers and the walls are pretty much vibrating with the sound of people being – as we say on this side of the city – up in orms.

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Anyone who follows the Letters to the Editor page in this newspaper will be aware of my old man’s thoughts on the subject of girls slash women playing rugby. 

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I end up pretty much not sleeping for, like, five nights straight. And I know Honor is exactly the same. I’m there, “Can you just explain to me again what you saw and heard — illegibly.” “There’s no illegibly about it,” Sorcha goes. “I saw the ghost of an old man.”

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She’s quiet, cranky and liable to explode in a rage at the least provocation. Mind you, she’s been like that since she emerged from her old dear’s womb with her two middle fingers raised to the world. It’s just that for the first time ever, she seems without – I don’t know – hope.

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“Ross O’Carroll-Kelly!” a voice behind me goes. “It is you, isn’t it?”

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Sorcha is unpacking her collection of Lladro figurines from a cordboard box. She says she’s worried about Honor.

I’m like, “Honor? In terms of what specifically?”

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