It’s, like, six o’clock on New Year’s Day and I open the fridge to make a genuinely shocking discovery – there is no giggle juice in there.
“Are you looking for beer?” Sorcha goes as I slam the door shut.
And I’m like, “Yeah, no, where is it?”
“I’ve hidden it,” she goes – and she says it as casually as that.
I’m there, “Hidden it? Does this have something to do with Johnny getting his hands on one of my cans on Christmas Day, then pissing himself at the dinner table before falling asleep with his face in the pudding? Because I’ve seen my old dear do that – and you just woke her up for a top-up.”
Come on, Ross, you must have drunk every single day since the first lockdown
“The reason I’ve hidden your beer,” she goes, “is because you’re doing Dry January this year.”
“Excuse me?”
"It was your actual idea, Ross."
“It doesn’t sound like one of mine, to be fair to it.”
“You said it last year. You said, ‘I’m definitely doing Dry January next year’.”
“Jesus, Sorcha, that was just a figure of speech. It’s like when I say that I’m going to, I don’t know, do a triathlon one day. Or read a book. It’s bullshit talk. Because then I remember that I can’t swim. And I find reading really boring.”
I want us each to come out of this whole pandemic experience as <em>the</em> best possible version of ourselves
“Come on, Ross, you must have drunk every single day since the first lockdown last Morch.”
"Er, everybody did? The world was coming to an end."
“Well, we’re facing into 2021 with a renewed sense of hope.”
Honor walks into the kitchen then.
She goes, “You need to have a serious chat with that wife of yours.”
I’m there, “She’s making me do Dry January, Honor.”
"She's making me give up swearing."
“What? That’s crazy talk.”
Sorcha holds up the Quality Street tin.
“This is the swear jor,” she goes. “Every time Honor uses the F word, she has to put a euro in here.”
Sorcha gives it a shake. It sounds like there’s quite a few quid in there already. Honor must have really opened up on her when she told her the news.
“And this year,” Sorcha goes, “we are going to keep our new year’s resolutions!”
I’m there, “What about you? What are you giving up?”
"I've decided," she goes, "that I'm finally going to become the vegetarian I've always wanted to be?"
“Focking spare me,” Honor goes, at the same time dropping a €2 coin into the tin. “Focking. Spare me.”
Sorcha's there, "We're going to be hopefully getting the vaccine in the next few months. I want us each to come out of this whole pandemic experience as the best possible version of ourselves. Wouldn't that be great?"
“I want to answer that question,” Honor goes, “but I’m all out of cash. Can I put IOUs in?”
"Come on, goys – let's all enter into the spirit of this thing. The boys are giving up sweets as their new year's resolution."
I’m there, “Do they know that?”
“Not yet.”
“Remind me not to be here when you tell them. I think I’ll actually go to bed.”
“Bed?” Sorcha goes. “Ross, it’s only six o’clock.”
“Yeah, no, the evenings really drag without drink.”
“Come on, tonight is boardgames night! I’ll go upstairs and get the boys and then I’ll fix us some dinner.”
When she leaves the room, Honor turns around to me and goes, “I’d love to see her face if I dropped a grand into the swear tin and went, ‘Okay, that should see me through to Paddy’s Day. Let me know when it focking runs out!’”
I'm there, "Yeah, no, it'd be genuinely funny alright. Where would you get a grand, though?"
“You have a grand in your pocket.”
“Er, no, I don’t.”
"Yes, you do. Grandad gave it to you – to pay your cor insurance?"
She misses nothing.
I’m there, “I’m not giving you a grand, Honor, just so you can rub it in your mother’s face.”
“What if I told you that I know where she hid your beers?”
“Honor, it’s 12 cans. I’m hordly going to give you a grand for, like, 12 cans.”
You're giving up sweets as your new year's resolution, boys! But do you know what tastes just as nice? Carrot sticks!
She goes, "It's three minutes past six, Dad. Think of how long those last three minutes seemed", and I realise she does have a point. "And, as Mom said, tonight is, like, boardgames night? I saw her taking out Pictionary earlier."
“Jesus.”
“And you’re rubbish at boardgames, Dad.”
“Yeah, no, it’s because I’m thick as shit.”
“The evening would be lot easier to get through, I’d imagine, with a few beers inside you.”
She’s right. I reach into my pocket and I whip out the wad of notes that my old man gave me. I’m like, “Here. Now where are they?”
“They’re in the cooler box in the shed,” she goes.
“Jesus, I could have guessed that – saved myself a grand.”
Sorcha walks back into the kitchen with the boys. Her eyes go wide as Honor morches up to the tin, drops the wad of notes into it, then goes, “Okay, that should see me through to Paddy’s Day. Let me know when it focking runs out.”
Leo sees the Quality Street tin and he’s like, “Me want chocolate!”
“So, big news!” Sorcha goes. “You’re giving up sweets as your new year’s resolution, boys! But do you know what tastes just as nice? Carrot sticks!”
I’m there, “Like I said, I definitely don’t want to see this,” and I step outside into the gorden.
I say goodbye to a bad year and hello to a hopefully better one, sitting on the cooler box, drinking warm beer on a cold night and listening to my daughter effing and blinding out of her bedroom window, determined to burn through that grand as quickly as possible.
There’s no judgement from me. We’re all just doing what we can to get through this. Me. Honor. And – yeah, no – even Sorcha.
I knock back another mouthful of the wonder stuff and I watch her move around the kitchen. The lights are on, so I can see her, but she can't see me? The boys are going absolutely ballistic on her. I watch her open the fridge and look over both shoulders. And she's satisfied that no one is watching, she pulls a leg from what's left of the Christmas turkey – and sinks her teeth into it.