I’ve never been one of those parents. You know the kind I’m talking about. Their kid does a poo for the first time sitting on a toilet and they’re taking out an ad in The Irish Times to announce the news. It’s genuinely rare that I find myself in a position to say – like I did on Friday – that I’m proud of one of my children. Honor has now completed exactly half of her community service hours for vandalising hundreds of SUVs across south Dublin. I know it’s a low bor that I’ve set for her, but here we are.
Every morning this week, she has reported for duty, been handed a bottle of vinegar and stiff brush and been told to clean the chewing gum off the Liffey Boardwalk. So when Friday comes, I decide to surprise her by turning up to say fair focks in person. Except when I get there, it’s Mr Grainger, her court-appointed supervisor, who has a surprise for me?
He’s like, “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the girl all day.”
I’m there, “What?”
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?’
He goes, “She didn’t show up this morning.”
I’m like, “Well, have you tried her mobile?”
He goes, “What do you think I’m running here – a juice bar? Someone doesn’t show up, I report them for breaching the terms of their community service order.”
I’m there, “Well, is there someone my old man’s solicitor can ring? Someone more senior than you?”
I notice the other members of the crew – young criminal types, and that’s not me being judgy – looking me up and down.
“Like father, like daughter,” one of them goes.
Even Mr Grainger has a good chuckle at that one.
“This is her third no-show,” he goes. “There’s a good chance they’re going to reset her hours completed to zero. That’s the best-case scenario.”
I’m there, “And worst case?”
And he’s like, “A judge sends her to jail.”
I’m there, “You’re going to be hearing from Hennessy Coghlan-O’Hara. And I’d advise you to brace yourself – we’re talking status focking orange here.”
“Hennessy can’t get you out of every legal scrape,” which is an out-and-out lie
I whip out my phone and I ring Honor. She answers with her usual, “The fock do you want?”
I’m there, “Where are you? And don’t say you’re doing your community service because I’m standing on Bachelors Walk and you didn’t show your face this morning.”
She goes, “I’m taking tea in the Shelbourne,” and those are her exact words.
I’m there, “Mr Grainger is reporting you – just so you know.”
She’s like, “Fock him. Hennessy will sort it out.”
I go, “Hennessy can’t get you out of every legal scrape,” which is an out-and-out lie. “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to stort taking responsibility for your own actions,” which, again, is another lie. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”
When I show up in the Lord Mayor’s Lounge, I discover that Honor is – like she said – taking tea with a woman who’s roughly my old dear’s age and who looks vaguely familiar. It could actually be my old dear, given how often she has work done to her face.
I hear the woman go, “It’s your year to shine, darling – and you are going to radiate!”
The woman turns her head and sees me standing there glowering at them. She goes, “Could we get some more clotted cream – there’s a good man.”
I’m like, “Do I look like staff to you?”
Honor goes, “Wendy, this is my dad. Dad, this is Wendy Wagoner.”
Wendy focking Wagoner. Of course. She’s the PR guru my old dear hired when she was trying to win a Rehab People of the Year Award – except they weren’t giving them out for evil that year.
“Oh, yes!” the woman goes, even though she doesn’t know me from a crow.
I’m there, “Well, as Honor’s dad, am I allowed to ask what the actual fock is going on here?”
Honor’s like, “I’m going to be Mount Anville head girl in, like, four weeks’ time. And I’ve decided that I’m going to need a PA.”
I’m like, “You’re hiring a PA – to help you be head girl?”
She goes, “Of course I am!”
I’m there, “Your old dear didn’t have a PA when she did it.”
And she’s like, “There’s a lot more involved in the job now. I’ve got to organise the sixth year skiing trip, the debs and the 24-hour Glamp-Out in aid of homelessness. I’ve to appoint an editor to the school magazine, arrange the Christmas concert and check out destinations for the Leaving Cert holiday. All of that while liaising with teachers to tell them what’s happening.”
Oh my God, you’re going to play everyone off against each other to decide who goes – like the Hunger Games, except in Goatstown
— Ross
I’m there, “Isn’t that why you’re supposed to appoint, like, a deputy head girl?”
But Honor looks at me coldly and goes, “Uno duce, una voce – as Granddad always says.”
Wendy – without even looking at me – goes, “Have you thought of a theme for the year yet, Honor?”
And Honor’s like, “Vengeance.”
Wendy stares into the mid-distance and goes, “Vengenace – oh, I love this! I’m thinking of a colour palette with lots of hot reds and deep purples!”
I’m like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Vengeance against who? Whom? Who?”
She’s there, “Against all the girls who called me a weirdo over the years. All the girls who didn’t invite me to their porties. All the girls who wrote shit about me on Facebook.”
“So the entire school?” I go.
She’s like, “Plus the teachers who said that I’d never amount to anything in life.”
“In fairness to them,” I go, “Mr Grainger mentioned a judge possibly sending you to prison.”
Wendy goes, “And what about a tone for the year? Have you thought about what the tone might be?”
Honor’s like, “Yes, I have, Wendy – chaos.”
“Chaos!” Wendy goes. “Oh, I love this! Chaos is transformation and transformation is – ” and she makes inverted commas with her fingers, ” – good!”
Honor’s there, “But my first job is to arrange the October skiing trip.”
And Wendy’s like, “Where were you thinking in terms of, Honor?”
Honor goes, “My granddad, Chorles, has a time-share in this – oh my God – amazing villa in St Moritz.”
Wendy goes, “St Moritz! Perfect!”
I’m there, “Honor, that place only holds, like, 50 people,” and as I’m saying it the penny suddenly drops. “Oh my God, you’re going to play everyone off against each other to decide who goes – like the Hunger Games, except in Goatstown.”
And Honor just goes, “Let the fun begin!”
