So – yeah, no – I grab a stick of Heinemite from the fridge and I ask Sorcha, “Who’s the kid in the bow tie?”
The reason I ask is because I don’t trust kids in bow ties. I’m on the record as saying that putting a bow tie on any human being turns him straight away into an insufferable dickhead. We’re talking nightclub bouncers. We’re talking wine waiters. We’re talking clowns.
And we’re definitely talking children.
“It’s Lauren’s next-door neighbour’s son,” Sorcha goes – like that’s any kind of explanation.
Honor is staring at Brett like he’s an ATM and she’s sitting in a JCB, trying to work the levers
It’s finally here, the day that I meet my brother slash half-brother
‘That picture The Last Supper is weird. They’re all sitting on the same side of the table’
Honor goes, ‘I’m editing the school yearbook photographs of anyone who pissed me off’
I’m there, “What I’m asking is what is he doing at our Good Friday porty, eating my canapes and being an obnoxious little shit.”
“Lauren’s neighbours have gone to Portugal for the Easter break. He doesn’t like flying so Lauren offered to mind him,” and then she laughs. “I know what this is about Ross. You’re scared of children in bow ties.”
I’m there, “I’m not scared of them. I just think it’s a bit much.”
“A bit much?”
“A bit, ‘Look at me!’ And if he asks me one more time if I’m brain-dead, I’m going to sic Brian, Johnny and Leo on him.”
Yeah, no, they’re already looking at me for permission to give him a hiding.
Sorcha goes, “Are you going to do the Easter egg hunt soon?”
Yeah, no, the Easter egg hunt is an annual event – and sort of, like, my thing? The kids all love me for it. I’m like an Easter Santa.
I’m there, “Thought I might get a few more beers inside me first.”
I tip back into the livingroom, which is, like, full of people. Garret and Claire from Bray of all places are showing Lauren and Christian their photographs from their recent weekend break in Milan.
Claire goes, “Oh! My God! I have to show you Da Vinci’s Last Supper. I mean, you’re not technically supposed to take photos of it? But I managed to get a sneaky selfie. Let me go into my Insta Stories.”
I go upstairs and I grab the pink bunny ears that Sorcha brought home from a Playboy-themed hen weekend
I’m there, “Do you not think that picture’s weird?” just making conversation, because I’m nothing if not a social person.
Garret goes, “Weird in what way?” trying to put me on the spot.
“I mean, just the way they’re all sitting on the same side of the table. Like, would you do that in a restaurant? Book a table for 13 and then all of you sit elbow-to-elbow like it’s Friday night in Wagamama. And would Jesus not have said, ‘Lads, I can’t even use my knife and fork here. Would some of you not move over the other side there?”
Everyone just stares at me in silence like people sometimes do when I’ve made them think.
“What an idiot,” a voice goes – yeah, no, it’s the kid in the bow tie, who’s hanging on the edge of the conversation.
I’m there, “Are you talking about me or the dude who did the picture?”
“The dude who did the picture,” he goes, in this, like, a mocking voice. “You’re talking about Leonardo da Vinci! What are you, brain-dead?”
Garret and Claire actually laugh – I’ve never said a word about Bray that wasn’t 100 per cent justified – and I decide to get out of the room before I throttle the kid with his own, like, I said, bow-focking-tie.
I go upstairs and I grab the pink bunny ears that Sorcha brought home from a Playboy-themed hen weekend in the Powerscourt Hotel a few weeks before the 2008 economic crash. I throw them on, then I tip downstairs and I do my usual, “Hi, boys and girls!”
Sorcha goes, “Look, everyone! It’s the Easter Bunny!”
Which gets a humungous cheer. Everyone is looking at me with big – it might not be a word – but expectant smiles on their faces and I get a sudden flashback to my Leinster Schools Senior Cup days.
I’m there, “Anyone want to go on an Easter Egg Hunt?”
There’s a big cheer and all the kids follow me down the hallway and outside to the gorden, including Bow Tie, who goes, “This is so lame.”
I’m like, “You know you don’t have to take port?”
But he’s there, “I’m going to find more eggs than anyone else!”
I’m like, “Yeah, no, that’s kind of the point of the game,” and then I tip back inside to the livingroom after making a short detour to the fridge for another beer.
I go, “Intelligence is very much a subjective thing,” which is what the parents of all stupid children say
— Ross
Lauren is like, “He is so intelligent, it’s actually scary sometimes?”
It’s focking scary all the time, I’m tempted to say.
I’m like, “How old is he?”
And she goes, “Six.”
Christian comes back from the jacks then and goes, “Who are we talking about?”
Lauren’s there, “Baxter.”
Baxter? Yeah, no, that focking tracks.
Christian’s like, “Oh my God, he is phenomenally intelligent.”
I go, “Intelligence is very much a subjective thing,” which is what the parents of all stupid children say. “It depends on your definition of it.”
Christian’s there “Wait a minute – where is he?”
I’m like, “He’s in the gorden. It’s, like, the Easter egg hunt.”
Lauren turns – I swear to fock – white in the face. She goes, “Jesus Christ, Ross, he can’t eat chocolate! He’s allergic!”
I’m like, “How the fock was I supposed to know that?”
Lauren shoves past me.
Christian goes, “Ross, we left a syringe full of salt water in your fridge – it’s to make him vomit.”
I’m there, “I’ll grab it.”
Which is what I end up doing, while everyone else hurries outside to the gorden. Sorcha, who missed the drama up until now, goes, “What’s happening, Ross?”
I’m like, “Medical emergency! You never focking told me that Baxter was allergic to chocolate!”
I race outside with the – again – syringe. Everyone is crowded around the little shit with the bow tie. Cometh the hour – and blah blah blah. I push through the scrum of bodies, yank the kid’s head back, stick the syringe in his mouth and squirt the stuff down his throat.
Everyone just, like, stares at me in shock. No one says, “Thanks, Rossmeister!” or, “The man of the moment – yet again!” Instead, there’s just, like, silence, except for a few people going, “Oh! My God!” and then suddenly the sound of – yeah, no – borking?
“Ross,” Christian goes, “Baxter is our rescue dog.”
Shit, I knew the name was familiar.
I hear the sound of retching, then the kid with the bow-tie vomits all over the ground, splashing my shooby-dooby Dubes.
I go, “I’ll, er, go and grab one for the dog. Sorry, whatever your name is – I must be brain-dead.”
