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Sorcha is in a state of high excitement.
“Come on,” she goes, shaking her cor keys in my general postcode, “let’s go.”
I'm like, "Er, where are we going? Honor, can you maybe stop doing that?"
Yeah, no, she’s following her old dear around the house, ringing a hand bell and shouting, “Unclean! Unclean!”
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The triplets are copying her like they copy everything, the idiots.
"I'm getting a PCR test done," Sorcha goes. "Just to prove, once and for all, that I don't have it?"
I'm like, "But you already know you don't have it."
And she's there, "But other people don't know that."
I'm saying if I had it, it would have been from her brother's coffee cort. The people in the queue were standing, like, two feet aport from each other and I had to actually ask him for sanitiser
Sorcha told some cling-on mate of hers that she had a headache and a sore throat to avoid having to go for a drink with her in – in fairness to the girl – Lusk. Having spent the last year-and-a-bit being judgy about people not following the Government guidelines, the news that Sorcha has "symptoms" has got around like, well, me in my Hollywood Nights heyday.
Which is why none of us is allowed to leave the gaff. We’re all sitting around acting like we’re – as little Leo says: “Unclean! Unclean! Me want bell!”
Honor gives it to him and he storts shaking it like a demon.
I’m there, “Why do we have to go with you? I was going to spend the morning taking a few notes ahead of the Lions match this weekend. The goys will be waiting for my analysis, Sorcha.”
“I need you with me,” she goes, handing me her iPhone, “because I want you to, like, Insta-story my Covid test journey.”
"Your Covid test journey?"
“Okay, take a picture of me going out the door. Wait, let me put my mask on. Okay, go ahead.”
I take the picture – anything for an easy life.
“Now,” she goes, “post it with a message saying, ‘Some of you will have heard the news that I was feeling a bit under the weather. I’ve been isolating with my family ever since – as you all know I’ve been super, super careful since this whole pandemic storted. Even though I feel fine now and I think it was just tiredness, I’ve decided to take the test just to, like, rule it out. Hashtag, vigilant. Hashtag, in it together. Hashtag, safety first.’ Okay, post that. Leo, give me that – oh my God – bell. Honor, put your brothers in the cor.”
So – yeah, no – twenty minutes later, we’re well on the road when Sorcha turns around to me and goes, “So what’s the reaction been?”
I’m like, “The reaction? In terms of-?”
“In terms of my Insta post!”
“Oh,” I go, checking her phone. “You’ve got, like, thirty-seven Likes.”
"Thirty-seven?" she goes, sounding genuinely underwhelmed. "I thought it'd be, like, more than that?"
“Sorcha, there’s literally fock-all wrong with you.”
“I just thought more people would be concerned. Read me some of the responses. What are people saying?”
I’m there, “Aoibheann from your book club sent you a fingers-crossed emoji.”
"She's so nice," she goes.
“Your cousin Anora sent you two fingers-crossed emojis and one, two, three, four, five, six, seven love horts. Jacqui, your online PT, said, ‘Go, girl! #girlboss!’ Then Chloe-“
“What? What’s Chloe said?”
“She’s given you, like, two love horts-“
"Only two?"
“And then she asked if you know how you caught it yet, given how super, super careful you’ve been?”
Sorcha smiles – sort of, like, bitterly?
“I know what that’s about,” she goes. “She’s been p*ssed off with me since Father’s Day last year, when she posted a picture of her with her dad and I pointed out they weren’t, like, wearing masks.”
I’m like, “Riiight.”
“So now she’s being a bitch. If I got it anywhere, it was probably from her brother’s coffee cort.”
"But you don't have it, Sorcha. You made the whole story up, remember – to get out of meeting someone?"
Your wife was lecturing her two months ago about her mask not covering her nostrils in a photo she posted on Insta
"I'm saying if I had it, it would have been from her brother's coffee cort. The people in the queue were standing, like, two feet aport from each other and I had to actually ask him for sanitiser. Okay, write this: 'I'm ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain that I don't have it, but if I got it anywhere, it was while I was in the pork recently and I decided to hashtag support local businesses.' She'll know what that means," and then she roars, "Honor, will you please stop ringing that bell?"
“It’s not me,” Honor goes. “It’s Johnny.”
I’m there, “Sorcha, wouldn’t it be easier just to tell everyone the truth – it was a lie that sort of, like, grew legs?”
She’s like, “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying, we’re all self-isolating, even though there’s nothing wrong with us. And now you’re going off to take a test that you know you don’t actually need.”
“Just write what I said, Ross. And don’t forget the hashtag. He doesn’t even have a licence for that coffee cort, by the way.”
We eventually arrive at the place.
“Okay,” Sorcha goes, “take a picture of me outside,” which is what I end up doing. “And post it with the caption, ‘Even though I only felt unwell for, like, a few hours, I’m doing the responsible thing. Hashtag, wish me luck. Hashtag, safety first. Hashtag, in it together.”
Into the testing place she goes and I get back into the cor.
“The stupid cow has lost the plot,” Honor goes.
I’m there, “I probably should tell you not to talk about your mother like that, but I actually think you’re right.”
And it's then that my own phone ends up beeping? It's, like, a WhatsApp message from Christian, telling me-
“Oh my God, no!” I go.
Honor’s like, “What?”
“Christian’s having a borbecue for the Lions match this weekend – and I’ve been uninvited.”
"Er, why?"
“He says the PCR test isn’t one hundred percent accurate and Lauren doesn’t want any of us in their gaff if there’s even a one per cent chance that we have it.”
“Your wife was lecturing her two months ago about her mask not covering her nostrils in a photo she posted on Insta.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Post this on her Insta: ‘I’ve decided to come clean. I never had symptoms. I faked it to get out of going to Lusk.’”
I’m there, “I … I … I couldn’t do that to her.”
“You couldn’t,” she goes, taking Sorcha’s phone from me. “But I could.”