Ross O'Carroll-Kelly

“Mee, meh, mah, moh, moo,” Sorcha goes – and not for the first time since we left Dublin. “Mee, meh, mah, moh, moo.” And I’m there, “Don’t worry – I’ll, em, let you know when that gets annoying.” She goes, “I’m doing my vocal exercises, Ross. This is a huge night for us.”

The old man says he doesn’t think he’ll bother with Christmas this year – “what with everything”. By which he means, what with it being the first one since the old dear – yeah, no – pegged it. Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, Chorles, Fionnuala was such a Christmas person. She’d want you to celebrate it.”

Sorcha is in her – literally? – element. She goes, “This is gorgeous, isn’t it?” This being the humungous Christmas morket in – believe it or not – Belfast. Honor’s there, “I still don’t understand what we’re even doing here?” And Sorcha’s like, “Honor, we may end up living in a united Ireland one day. And what do we know about our brothers and sisters from the North?” “They’re very angry,” Johnny goes.

Things have been a bit – yeah, no – strained between Christian and me ever since he got back with his ex-wife, Lauren. I told him straight out that he was Hertz Car Rental even thinking about going there again. But he asked her to marry him irregordless and then, in the first flush of their rediscovered love, she asked him – “tell me honestly, I won’t be angry” – what his friends thought of them getting hitched again and the dude snitched on me like a parrot with a megaphone.

The front door slams and the entire orangerie – built without planning permission at the height of the Celtic Tiger – shakes to its foundations. Sorcha’s eyes meet mine. Ten seconds later we hear Honor’s bedroom door slam too and we both silently wonder whether the structure will stay standing for what’s left of our daughter’s teenage years.

The room is absolutely rammers and I’m listening outside the door as various randomers talk s, h, one, t, about me and my famous coaching methods.

There’s a meeting. That’s the big news of the day. I’m like, “What kind of a meeting?” And Fionn goes, “Ross, you’re not invited.”

“Here, Rosser,” Ronan goes, pouring me a lorge glass of red, “get yisser laughing gear around that.”