Are you saying Honor’s behaviour has improved? ‘Oh, no, she’s the most appalling child I’ve ever had the misfortune to teach’

The most exciting day of the school year for a lot of South Dublin mums and dads is the day of the parent-teacher meeting. We arrive at the school in a convoy of all-terrain vehicles, dressed for a night at the National Concert Hall, giddy at the thought of hearing that little Girvan or little Siofra has a genuine gift for poetry or rugby or maths. Me, I'm happy if I can get through the afternoon without hearing that my daughter has scalped a teacher or blinded another student in an acid attack.

It's a day that literally terrifies me and I know that Sorcha feels the same way, judging from the number of costume changes she went through before we left the house. It was like being backstage at a Kylie gig. In the end, she went for a cape and trilby combo that's apparently a very popular look for A/W14 and Honor sat on the stairs humming the theme tune to The Good, The Bad and The Ugly as we were going out the door.

Anyway, we've been at the school for almost an hour and so far we've seen Miss Taite, who teaches her Ancient Arabic and Speech and Deportment, and Miss Brock – the famous Foxy Brocksy – who takes her for Upholstery and Self-Esteem.

Neither of them, in fairness, had any stories to tell us about atrocities committed by our daughter since the stort of the school year. No fires, no floods and everyone has the same number of knees they had at the end of August. I couldn’t be more proud of her. Sorcha doesn’t share my happiness, though. She can’t just accept that, as far as Honor is concerned, no news is excellent news.

She goes, “Did Miss Taite seem frightened to you?”

I actually laugh. This is while we're sitting in the corridor, waiting to see Bean Uí Dhalaigh, her year head, who takes her for everything else.

I’m like, “Frightened? What are you talking about?”

"I just thought she seemed a little, I don't know, reticent?" she goes. "Like she was holding something back?"

“If you don’t hear about a problem, Sorcha, then the problem doesn’t exist. That’s always been my approach to, I suppose, life. There’s a lot to be said for complete and utter ignorance.”

“I mean, I asked her straight out – you heard me, Ross – was Honor being cheeky and disruptive this year. And she totally fudged it: ‘Those definitions can sometimes come down to the way we interpret behaviour.’”

“That’s good enough for me, Sorcha. The message I took from that was, ‘Keep doing whatever it is you’re doing as parents, because, from where I’m sitting, you goys are nailing it and I think I’m going to have to say fair focks to you.’”

“That’s not the message I got at all.”

“Well, that’s because I think you’re being possibly paranoid.”

"And Miss Knox – why did she keep looking over my shoulder when she was talking to me?"

“I think she has a bit of a honky eye. I actually like it. I think it’s cute on her.”

“And what did she say when we were going out the door? ‘If Honor asks you what I said about her, what are you going to tell her?’ Does that not seem, I don’t know, sinister to you?”

“I don’t think so. I genuinely don’t think so. ”

It's at that point that Bean Uí Dhalaigh steps out of the classroom into the corridor. Looks-wise, she wouldn't be the best. I know that's not strictly relevant to the story, but I like to give you a bit of colour.

Her greeting, it has to be said, takes us both a bit by surprise? "Hello!" she goes, her orms stretched wide, then she air-kisses Sorcha on both cheeks and gives me a proper, like, full-on hug.

I’m thinking she’s possibly mistaken us for someone else, except then she goes, “Honor’s mum and dad! How are you both?”

Sorcha's there, "Er, we're good," feeling obviously as confused as I am. "Thanks for asking, Bean Uí Dhalaigh."

“Oh, please,” the woman goes, “call me Melissa. Sit down there. Why do you look so worried?”

I end up just laughing. “To be honest,” I go, “smiles are one thing we don’t expect to see when we come to the school. This is the first parent-teacher meeting in three years where we haven’t been advised to have a solicitor present.”

She goes, “All I will say in response to that is that the job of teaching brings with it a great many challenges. Our main job, as educators, is to get the best out of young people. If we fail to do that, then it’s the fault of the teacher, not the pupil.”

Someone else is taking the rap for the way my daughter has turned out. Not surprisingly, I’m on it like an Easter bonnet. “This is music to my ears,” I go. “I love your attitude and I really mean that.”

Sorcha’s face is lit up like I don’t know what. She goes, “Are you saying that Honor’s behaviour has improved this year?”

“Oh, no,” the woman goes, still grinning like a donkey trying to pass an acorn. “She’s the most appalling child I’ve ever had the misfortune to teach.”

I’m like, “Why are you smiling when you’re saying that?”

“Because,” she goes, “I’m leaving.”

“Leaving? Leaving the school?”

“Leaving the school. Leaving teaching. Leaving everything. For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to teach children – to fill their hearts with a love of learning and their minds with a passion for inquiry. I’ve been doing it for 10 years and I’ve loved it. But after 10 weeks in the company of your daughter, I’ve realised that it’s not what I want to do anymore.”

“Well,” I go, “at least she’s done some good,” always trying to see the positive as a parent.

But Sorcha’s in, literally, shock. She’s like, “You’re saying our daughter has put you off teaching forever?”

“Not just teaching,” she goes. “She’s put me off children. I told my fiancée three weeks ago that I’d changed my mind about wanting kids and now he’s ended it.”

“Oh my God, that’s terrible.”

It is terrible. There won't be many takers for her and I'm not saying that to be a dick.

“No, it’s wonderful,” she goes, “because look at me! I’m smiling! There are six weeks to go until the Christmas holidays and then I won’t have to see your daughter anymore!”

Again, trying to see the good in Honor, I go, “You’re actually the third teacher we’ve seen today and you’re the first who’s had any complaints about her.”

She laughs. "Are you talking about Nuala Taite and Fay Brock?" she goes.

Sorcha’s like, “Yes, we’ve seen both of them, although I got the distinct impression that there was a lot they weren’t saying.”

“Of course there’s a lot they weren’t saying. They’re terrified.”

I’m like, “Why would they be terrified?”

“Because,” she goes, “one of them is going to become her full-time teacher after Christmas.” ILLUSTRATION: ALAN CLARKE