When Honor drops the news, I sit there with my mouth open like someone from Roscommon seeing escalators for the first time

Sorcha tells Honor that she’s leaving it very late.

Honor’s like, “What are you talking about?”

And Sorcha goes, “I’m talking about the debs, Honor.”

Honor’s there, “Not this again,” and she’s right because her old is like a dog with a chew toy.

The old dear made a seating plan for her own funeral. She didn’t want ugly people in the first three pews

I get this sudden flashback to when I was six or seven and I’d hold the wheel steady for the old dear while she drove home, half-cut

The old dear goes, ‘Sorcha? I don’t know anyone of that name. Is she one of your tarts, Ross?’

She goes, “You should be excited about it, Honor – but you’re not even, like, talking about it?”

Honor’s there, “You’re doing enough talking for both of us.”

“What about the dress? Are you going to buy one or are you going to have one made?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Because the nightmare for any girl is turning up at her debs and discovering that someone else is wearing the same dress. Happened to Belinda Birney and Melinda Royle at mine. They both went home before the meal, the night ruined.”

“Yeah, great story, Mom!”

“Do you know what I was thinking? We could go to London to buy one. Or Paris. Just me and you. Turn it into a girls’ weekend.”

“I’m not bothered.”

“Paris would be better. We’ll have more chance of getting something – oh my God – totally unique. Or Milan? Will we go to Milan this weekend?”

Honor looks at me and goes, “Can you tell your wife to stop going on about it?”

Sorcha’s there, “What you wear to the debs is a major, major deal, Honor. It’s your last chance to make a lasting statement about yourself to this group of peers. People still talk to me about my dress – especially when I post old photos of it on Insta.”

The dude at the Coldplay concert, diving for cover like he was being shelled, was a pure amateur

There’s, like, a minute or two of silence then when we can all hear ourselves chewing. We’re having dinner – I don’t think I mentioned.

“And of course the bigger question,” Sorcha eventually goes, “is who are you going to bring?”

Honor’s like, “Mom, can we not?”

“Because – and I can’t believe I’m saying this as a feminist activist – who you bring is even more important than what you wear. The debs is, like, a landmork moment in your life – it’s on a por with your wedding day. So be careful who you choose to spend it with. You don’t want to make the same mistake I made.”

I’m there, “She’s talking about me, Honor.”

“Yes, Ross, I’m talking about you. Your father ruined the night for me, Honor. He got off with two other girls.”

‘And the rest,’ I nearly feel like saying.

Except I don’t. Because experienced love cheats know that you never, ever admit to anything until you’ve been directly accused. The dude at the Coldplay concert, diving for cover like he was being shelled, was a pure amateur. I was going: Style it out, Dude. Eyes front. No one will ever know.

Sorcha goes, “You don’t want to have to leave early like I did, so I would say choose your portner very carefully. What about Caleb Brennan? You were friends with him, weren’t you?”

Honor’s there, “Yeah, in, like, transition year?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

I’m there, “Can I ask the all-important question? What school does he go to?”

Sorcha goes, “I think he’s Michael’s, Honor, isn’t he?”

I’m like. “No – it’s out of the question.”

“What?”

“She is not going to her debs with a Michael’s boy. End of conversation.”

“Everything in life doesn’t have to revolve around rugby, Ross.”

“Well, that’s where we differ. If a Michael’s boy turns up here on the night of your debs, Honor, I’ll run him from the door.”

Honor goes, “I’m not asking Caleb Brennan anyway. He’s a focking sap.”

I’m there, “He definitely sounds like one.”

Sorcha goes, “What about Rhys McElwee? Ross, you know his dad.”

I’m like, “You mean Barry McElwee? Played full-back for Blackrock the year we won the famous Leinster Schools Senior Cup?”

“If you say so.”

“And where does Barry–?”

“Blackrock,” Honor goes.

I’m there, “You bring a Rock boy to the debs, Honor, and I will disconnect that doorbell on the night.”

She’s like, “I’m not bringing Barry to the debs. He’s going out with Doireann Dorsey anyway.”

Sorcha goes, “I’ll go and get dessert. Be thinking of names while I’m gone. And, Ross, maybe you can come up with a school you would find acceptable?”

I’m there, “I can tell you one now. Sandford Pork. They were zero threat to us in terms of rugby.”

Dad, if I had vegetarian lasagne once, it doesn’t make me a vegetarian

Sorcha disappears into the kitchen and Honor – totally out of the blue – goes, “Don’t say anything, but I’ve already asked someone?”

I’m like, “And what–?”

She’s there, “Wesley College.”

And I’m like, “I can live with that. So who is it?”

“Iarlaith Morland.”

“Never heard of the dude. What position does he play?”

“Iarlaith’s not a dude.”

“So if he’s not a dude, what is he?”

“She is a girl, dad.”

Now, I am famously the most open-minded man in south Dublin. But when she drops this news, I have to admit, I end up just sitting there with my mouth slung open, like someone from Roscommon seeing escalators for the first time.

Honor’s like, “Are you going to say something?”

I’m there, “Er, yeah, no, I’m, like, totally cool with it.”

She goes, “I don’t care whether you’re cool with it or not.”

“So, what, you’re, like, gay?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? I mean, have you, like–?”

“Kissed her?”

“Er, whatever, yeah.”

“Yes, I have.”

“So you are gay.”

“Dad, if I had vegetarian lasagne once, it doesn’t make me a vegetarian.”

“Good point. But you do like girls?”