Honor calls me a chicken and I end up just laughing.
She's like, "You are a chicken. You're, like, a totally gutless excuse for a human being."
And to think, the parents of other kids my daughter’s age are writing down their children’s quotes so they can chuckle about them together when they get older. I don’t write down anything Honor says for fear of it falling into the hands of a social worker.
“You’re a spineless weasel,” she goes, “and I can’t look at you for more than three seconds without feeling the need to spew.”
This isn't just gratuitous abuse, by the way. She's trying to get me to do the Ice Bucket Challenge, except I'm having literally none of it?
See, one thing I’m not is an attention junkie. I’m like, “Honor, you’re not going to get me to do it by calling me names. Can I just remind you that I faced down entire stadiums full of haters back in my rugby-playing days? I never let a hostile crowd affect me. I just pulled up my jersey, gave them a look at The Six, then went back to taking care of business.”
I smile at the memory. God, I really was great.
Honor is silent for a few seconds. Then she recycles and decides to change the angle of approach.
“I’m just trying to remember,” she goes, “which Irish rugby player it was who said you were one of the 10 toughest opponents he’s ever faced.”
I’m like, “It was Gordon D’Arcy – and he actually said top five.”
“Top five. Oh my God, I remember that interview. You cut it out and stuck it in the back of your Sad Book.”
“It’s called a Rugby Tactics Books, Honor.”
“Whatever. He said you weren’t frightened of anything. He said you were a true warrior, who’d rather be carried from the battlefield on his shield than back out of a challenge. But I suppose that was a long time ago.”
Now it’s my turn to be suddenly quiet. She definitely knows what buttons to press with me. “Go and get the bucket,” I hear myself suddenly go. “I’m not going to have anyone saying that I’m not the unbelievable competitor I was back in the day.”
Honor skips down to the kitchen and I tip outside to the back gorden, where Sorcha – as it happens – is deadheading flowers.
I’m there, “I suppose you better get ready to film this,” and she ends up just laughing.
She goes, “I thought you said you’d never do it. She got inside your head, didn’t she?”
“Look, if it got back to Dorce that I backed away from this, I think it’d genuinely crush him.”
She laughs, then shakes her head and whips out her iPhone, just as Honor emerges from the kitchen, wobbling from side to side with the weight of the bucket. I sit down on the little pork bench next to the back door. And then, as she walks up to me, holding the bucket in both hands, I instinctively do something that I straight away regret.
I reach out, and, with the palm of my hand, I touch the side of the bucket.
Why do I do it? If I’m being totally honest, it’s to check that it’s actually ice-cold water in there and not boiling hot water from the kettle.
But Honor sees me do it and I watch her expression of excitement suddenly change to one of sadness. I try to cover my tracks by going, “I was just making sure that it was definitely cold enough,” except she’s too clever to fall for that.
“You thought I was going to throw boiling water over you!” she goes. Then she puts the bucket down and runs back into the house.
Sorcha’s like, “Go after her, Ross,” which is what I end up having to do.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, sobbing her hort out.
“Honor,” I try to go, “I was just double-checking. It’d be an easy mistake for anyone to make.”
“Am I really that horrible?” she goes. “Do you really think I’d be capable of doing something like that?”
“Of course I don’t.”
I say it with possibly less conviction than I intended.
“Nobody likes me,” she goes.
I’m there, “Honor, that’s not true.”
"It is true. Parents tell their children to stay away from me because I'm a bitch."
“You’re not a bitch, Honor. I genuinely like to think that.”
“I’m horrible.”
“You’re not horrible. And will I tell you how I know you’re not horrible? Because you gave me a massive, massive boost to my confidence a few minutes ago by reminding me about that famous Gordon D’Arcy interview. I’d actually nearly forgotten what I meant to the dude. And by bringing me to my senses, well, you’ve actually made my day.”
“Really?”
“You make my day every day, Honor. And those parents who tell their kids to stay away from you – you know something? I pity them. I genuinely pity them, because they’re never going to know just how lovely you can sometimes be.”
Oh, that does the trick. She straight away brightens up. “Come on,” I go. “Let’s go and prove your old man’s critics wrong!”
We step out to the gorden again, me holding her hand. Sorcha smiles at me and I can tell what she’s thinking is that being a good father is just another of life’s challenges that I’ve managed to nail.
I take my seat on the bench again and Sorcha storts filming. I close my eyes as Honor’s hoists the bucket up with all her strength, then goes, “This is going to be hillair!” and she tips the contents over my head.
I brace myself for the cold feeling, except it’s not the temperature that hits me. It’s the smell.
"Okay," I go, afraid to even my eyes, "what was that?"
Honor’s like, “The run-off from the dishwasher. I emptied the hoover bag into it and some fish-heads. And then some pink dye, which is going take about a week to wash off your skin.” I open my eyes in time to see her disappearing back into the house. “Mom,” she goes, “e-mail that video to me. I want to put it on my Facebook page.”