Sorcha says she knows me. She knows me inside-out. But I tell her that the Rossmeister General still has one or two surprises in his locker.
Yeah, no, we’re staying with Sorcha’s old pair in Stoneybosher while the fire damage to our gaff is being fixed and they’ve told us we can decorate their gaff for Christmas. So we’re off to buy a tree and then we’re going to swing into Killiney to collect our baubles and various other bits?
Which is actually what we’re orguing about. Sorcha says I’m going to be spending the entire weekend disentangling the lights, but I’m making the point that I didn’t just fock them all into the same box after Christmas last year. Yeah, no, I separated them, then I stretched them out and wrapped each set individually around pieces of, like, cordboard. Sorcha laughs.
I’m there, “What’s funny?”
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?’
She goes, “I remember you saying that you were going to do that? As a matter of fact, you say it every year. But then when it comes to it, you can never be bothered and you end up just throwing them all into the same box for Future Ross to sort out.”
“But last Christmas,” I go, “I remember Past Ross thinking, ‘You need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke. Do the dude a solid for once in your life.’ I remember saying that out loud, Sorcha – very clearly.”
There’s a “Christmas Trees for Sale” sign on a lamp-post as we’re approaching the junction with Ailesbury Road.
Sorcha’s like, “Will we stop here?”
But I’m there, “What, Michael’s? I wouldn’t have a Michael’s tree in the house, Sorcha. Even though I’d consider James Ryan a very good friend and obviously Dan Leavy and the Byrne brothers.”
She goes, “You see? This is why I’m so dubious about you wrapping the lights. Because you always, always insist on making things hord for yourself.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s one hundred per cent true.”
“Sorcha, I actually remember very pacifically thinking – and it was the mention of Ross and Harry Byrne there that reminded me – when you’re a ten and you score a try, you have the option of either putting the ball down in the corner, so you can show off your kicking skills with the conversion, or putting it down underneath the posts, just to make it easier on yourself. And I remember thinking, as I was wrapping the lights, ‘You’re basically putting the ball down beneath the posts here, Rossmeister.’”
“You’ve suddenly remembered that?”
It’s, like, every single year you used to say that you were going to give up drink after Christmas, do twelve hours per week in the gym and make a comeback to rugby
“Yeah, no, I’m like Celine Dion here – it’s all coming back to me now. And then I actually texted Ross Byrne – or I might have sent him a voice note – to tell him what I was doing. Because I’m always saying to him that once you’re a kicker, you never, ever stop thinking like a kicker – and that’s for life. And he came back to me with either a thumbs-up or a smiley face emoji.”
“Will we stop at Blackrock College for a tree?”
“Not a focking chance. Wouldn’t give them the pleasure.”
She’s like, “So where did the cordboard come from?”
I’m there, “Excuse me?”
“The cordboard. That you supposedly wrapped the lights in.”
“I think you’ll find the word is supposably?”
“It’s not, Ross.”
“Isn’t it? Well, whatever. It would have been cordboard that we had just lying around.”
“So you don’t remember where it came from?”
“I think it might have been a Corn Flakes box, or – yeah, no, I’m remembering now – it was a Rice Krispies box. Because you know the way I always love a bowl of Rice Krispies on Christmas morning.”
“Ross, I really think this is all wishful thinking on your port.”
“Excuse me?”
“You constantly do this. You tell yourself that you’re going to do something, and you manage to persuade yourself that you’ve done it – even though you haven’t?”
“Don’t suppose you’ve any examples of this, Sorcha?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s, like, every single year you used to say that you were going to give up drink after Christmas, do twelve hours per week in the gym and make a comeback to rugby.”
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“You had that one in the chamber, ready to fire, didn’t you?”
“And then in January, February, Morch, I would hear you tell people that you were off the booze and absolutely crushing it in the gym. Even though you weren’t.”
“So you’re calling me a liar?”
“I never thought you were lying. I always thought you’d convinced yourself that it was actually true. I think your enthusiasm sometimes gets the better of your sense of reality.”
“Well, brace yourself, Sorcha, because you’re about to be shocked.”
We drive the rest of the way in silence. Eventually, we pull into Honalee. There’s, like, five or six workmen out the front of the gaff, having their tea break.
Sorcha goes, “My husband is just going to pop up to the attic to get the Christmas lights if that’s okay?”
“Don’t mention Christmas lights,” one of the dudes goes. “I spent the whole of last weekend try to untangle the things.”
Sorcha’s there, “Well, Ross is convinced that he wrapped them all individually after last Christmas.”
The dude actually laughs.
He goes, “I always tell myself I’m going to do that. That’s me. Every year.”
I decide to block out the voices of the doubters and the naysayers. I tip upstairs, open the attic, clamber up the ladder, switch on the light and find the box. I stare at the lid of it for a good, like, thirty seconds, listening to my own breathing as I prepare to open it. Then I grab the two flaps, tear it open and look inside.
Sixty seconds later, I’m carrying the box down the stairs and out to the cor. All of the workmen are standing around waiting to find out whether I actually did wrap the lights or not.
“Well?” one of them even goes.
I’m there, “Get on with the work, will you? We want to be back in the house before Christmas 2025.”
I throw the box on the back seat and Sorcha storts the cor. She doesn’t say anything for a good, like, five minutes, then she goes, “I’ll tell you what, let’s treat ourselves to new Christmas lights this year.”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, good idea,” and then I go, “Past Ross is a total dick, by the way.”
