‘I’m going to ask you something,’ Sorcha goes, ‘Have you two been sleeping together?’

'That's the last time we're ever doing anything together as a family!" Sorcha goes.

And Honor’s like, “Good!” as she slams the cor door. “I can’t believe you’d bring us somewhere with shit WiFi! I should sue you for child neglect!”

“Yeah,” Sorcha goes, with a sarcastic smile on her face, “good luck with that!”

Honor’s there, “I’m going to ring Hennessy and find out my rights.”

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And Sorcha’s expression suddenly changes. He’d take the case in a hortbeat – probably win it as well.

“Ross,” she goes, “can you please talk to your daughter?”

I’m there, “I’m done talking to my daughter,” taking the suitcases out of the boot. “I’m done talking to all of you.”

“Fock you!” Leo goes.

And I'm like, "No, Leo, fock you – how's about that?"

Yeah, no, there’s nothing like spending five hours together in a cor to remind you how much you hate being around your family.

"Your dad is having a nervous breakdown," Honor tells him. "And it's no surprise, being married to her."

Sorcha's there, "It's having you as a daughter that drove him to it, Honor."

She’s referring to the incident in the forecourt of the Obama Plaza, when I climbed into the luggage comportment of a Dublin to Tralee Expressway coach in a desperate attempt to escape them.

I put the key in the door, then into the house I go. I drop the cases in the hallway, then I tip down to the kitchen with the intention of grabbing a beer. I can hear the old man’s voice through the door. He’s going, “Apologies in advance about the length!” and then I hear Sorcha’s old dear go, “Oh, don’t worry, Chorles, I’m at that age where I really appreciate a long one – as a matter of fact, the longer the better!”

I end up thumping on the door five times. I’m like, “What are you doing in there? Do I have to go in there and throw a bucket of water over you?”

She ends up opening the door.

“Kicker!” the old man goes. “You’re back from your - inverted commas - staycation!”

I open my eyes. They’re both fully clothed, I’m relieved to see.

“You sound disappointed,” I go. “What’s been going on here while we’ve been away?”

He’s like, “Ross, that business between Sorcha’s mother and I was a purely once-off thing.”

“That’s right,” she goes. “We were both lonely and seeking physical consolation. We meant what we said, Ross, it won’t happen again.”

I’m there, “So what was all that filthy talk about then? You appreciate a long one – the longer the better!”

The old man laughs.

"I was talking about my letter in this morning's Irish Times!" he goes. "Actually, you'll appreciate it, Kicker – it being a subject close to your own hort," and then he storts reading it out to us.

"Sir, " he goes. "The ongoing Covid-19 crisis has presented us all with an opportunity to reorder our priorities. In response to Senator Vincent P Martin's recent comments in the Seanad, I would like to point out that there are far more important things in life than who wins the Leinster Schools Senior Cup – especially with two teams from Kildare in the final. I trust that the locking down of the Midlands has finally put paid to the idea that this so-called match between Newbridge College and Clongowes Wood should be allowed to take place, thus endangering lives, not to mention the reputation of a once-great–"

He suddenly stops reading. Sorcha is standing in the doorway of the kitchen with a face like – literally? – thunder.

“Sorcha!” her old dear goes. “We weren’t expecting you back so soon!”

Sorcha’s like, “Oh, I bet you weren’t!”

"Dorling," her old dear tries to go, "what's the matter? Did something happen?" and then she looks at me for an explanation?

I’m there, “I tried to stow away to Tralee in the baggage hold of an Expressway coach. The driver was very understanding. He said the Obama Plaza is the point on the M7 where a lot of parents crack. Although something tells me that that’s not what’s upsetting your daughter.”

It turns out I’m right.

“What’s going on between you and Chorles?” Sorcha goes.

Her old dear’s there, “Me and Chorles? What on earth are you talking about?”

Oh, she’s good. Take it from someone who knows a thing or two about lying straight-faced about marital infidelity. It’s like she’s taken my correspondence course.

"I'm going to ask you something," Sorcha goes, "and I want you to give me an honest answer. Have you two been – and I'm just going to come out and say the words – sleeping together?"

The old man is, like, totally indignant. He’s there, “What in the name of Hades would make you ask a question like that?”

“This,” Sorcha goes, holding up – I swear to fock – a tennis racket.

I get this sudden flashback to a night when I walked in on my old pair when they were quite literally at it? The old dear was giddy slash shit-faced after winning a Best Dressed prize at the Leopardstown Christmas Festival – a Philip Treacy hat, up to the value of seven hundred yoyos - and was celebrating by thrashing the old man across the bare buttocks with a racket, albeit badminton.

“I suspected there was something going on between you,” Sorcha goes. “I have a sixth sense for this kind of thing – given who I’m married to.”

“Yeah, no,” I go, “let’s keep our eyes on the prize here, Sorcha.”

Sorcha’s old dear goes, “Dorling, I have never seen that tennis racket before in my life. I don’t know what you’re implying.”

I’m there, “Maybe stop waving it around, Sorcha. I’m seeing the ghosts of Christmas past here.”

“You’re saying you’ve never seen this tennis racket before?” Sorcha goes. “Would you swear on that? Would you swear on Dad’s life?”

“Of course I would,” the woman goes. “I’ve never seen it before – ever!”

And Sorcha gives her a big, championship-point smile.

“I put it in your bed before we left,” she goes. “I hid it under the sheets. And the interesting thing is, it was still there just now when I checked.”

God, she’s good. She has to be. Like she said, look at who she married.

"So the question is," she goes, "where have you been sleeping, Mom?"