Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: She unbuttons her coat and that’s when I notice that my old dear has had . . . augmentation

The old dear invites me and Sorcha out to dinner, although she calls it “some supper”. She does her usual trick of making the booking for eight, then she shows up at nine, smelling like a distillery, after leaving us sitting at the table for an hour, filling up on bread.

She goes, “I did say nine, didn’t I?”

And I’m like, “No, you didn’t. You said eight, just like you always do. You look wretched, by the way. Like a badly beaten corpse.”

Sorcha goes, “Ross, don’t be rude!” because she’s always been a sucker for the old dear’s act. “Fionnuala, you look fabulous, by the way.”

Then it ends up being air-kisses and whatever else.

“Let’s get some bubbles,” the old dear goes – this is before she’s even taken her coat off. “I didn’t get to see you for New Year’s Eve, so we haven’t toasted 2017 yet!”

Sorcha’s all, “How was New York, Fionnuala?”

“Oh,” she goes, “exhausting! But wonderful!”

The restaurant dude comes over and asks her if he can take her coat. And she goes, “How nice!” like it’s something they only do for her.

She unbuttons it and he helps her slip it off her shoulders. And that’s when I notice, with a fright that almost gives me a prolapse, that my old dear has had… well, a nice way of putting it would be to say “augmentation”.

A less nice way of putting it would be to say she’s had a job done on her Ode to Joys.

‘Can’t find the words’

I just blurt out the words, “What the f-.”

And she’s like, “Is there something wrong, Ross?”

But I suddenly can’t find the words. I try to focus on something else, for instance the choice of storters, except my eyes keep getting drawn from my menu to her chest, then to my menu, then back to her chest again, so I suddenly look like Owen Farrell sizing up a kick.

“Is Ross alright?” the old dear has the actual cheek to ask she takes her seat.

Sorcha’s there, “You look very pale, Ross. Take a drink of a water.”

I take a drink of Heineken.

The old dear goes, “It was lovely to get away. I had a lot of time to consider matters, especially in relation to my career. I’ve been thinking, does the world need another Fionnuala O’Carroll-Kelly book?”

I go to say, “The world never needed one in the first place,” except the words won’t come out. I end up going, “Flub. Flub flap. Flub flub flah.”

Sorcha goes, “Ross, what’s wrong? Ross, you’re sweating!”

The old dear fans herself with her menu. "Yes," she goes, "it is very warm in here, isn't it? Anyway, you'll be delighted to hear that the answer I came up with was yes – the world does need another Fionnuala O'Carroll-Kelly book!"

Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, Fionnuala, you’re going back to writing – your first love!”

I try to go, "Third love – after Bombay Sapphire and herself," but all that ends up coming out of my mouth is, "Flub lub. Flub lub blub."

Sorcha goes, “Ross, maybe if you undid another button on your shirt.”

“And to celebrate my return to writing,” the old dear goes, “I bought myself a little present. Can you guess what it is, Ross?”

I’m there, “Blup.”

She’s like, “It’s a darling little Audi TT!” and then she storts looking around. “Where has that sommelier gone? We need bubbles!”

She stands up from the table and goes off in search of the – yeah, no – wine waiter.

Sorcha goes, “Ross, what is the matter with you?”

I'm like, "What's the matter with me? Are you pretending not to notice?"

“Notice what?”

“Her Mister Bigs. Her Don DeLillos. Her Weapons of Mass Distraction. She’s had them done.”

“Ross, what are you talking about?”

“She’s had a boob job, Sorcha.”

“A boob job? Don’t be ridiculous, Ross.”

“How could you not have noticed? They’re staring you in the face.”

“It’s your imagination.”

“Don’t order any side dishes with your main. They won’t be able to fit them on the table.”

“Not this again, Ross.”

“What do you mean, not this again?”

“Didn’t a psychiatrist once tell you that your issues with your mother went back to you being bottle-fed as a child?”

“Whatever. That’s no reason to ignore the elephant in the room. The two elephants.”

Mother’s chest

“The psychiatrist told you to read about Oedipus.”

“That’s obviously why she went to the States after Christmas – to have the op.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“And she got that lower back tattoo a few weeks ago. The woman’s in her 60s. She’d want to stort acting her age.”

“Yeah, look who’s talking?”

“Excuse me?”

“We come out to dinner and you spend the entire time obsessing about your mother’s chest. So there was no bond between you and Fionnuala when you were a baby. But she’s really making the effort now, Ross.

“You have to just forgive her for the mistakes of the past. You have to forgive her for not being the perfect mother.”

I notice the old dear walking back across the floor of the restaurant with a bottle of Champagne in her hand, holding it up in triumph, like it’s the severed head of an animal she just killed in battle.

I’m there, “Sorcha, are you honestly telling me you don’t think she’s spilling out of the top of that dress.”

Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, I have no idea what you’re even talking about. She just looks normal to me.”

The old dear sits back down. She opens the Champagne herself, then pours us each a glass.

“Here’s to 2017,” she goes.

I’m like, “Yeah, no, whatever.”

Sorcha’s there, “And here’s to your next book, Fionnuala, whatever it might be.”

I’m there, “And to your new cor,” trying to be nice to the woman. “An Audi TT. I’m tempted to say fair focks.”

And that’s when she goes, “Oh, I forgot to mention – I saw you staring at me, Ross – I’ve also had my breasts enlorged.”