'Cillian stops and looks over his shoulder, with the electric screwdriver - I don't know - I suppose you'd have to say poised'

I'm looking for the old magic with Sorcha, but instead I find Cillian getting, like, serious brownie points with the help of Puff the Magic Dragon.

Thursday afternoon I go out for a wander and pretty much out of boredom, roysh, I decide to swing down Newtownpork Avenue to see if can't sort of, like, bump into Sorcha, as in accidentally on purpose? Of course the old hort's pumping like a souped-up Mitsubishi Colt when I notice from, like, 50 yords down the road that the front door's open and I'm thinking, yeah, this is my chance to get in and give her the magic like Penn and Teller. We'll be renewing our vows quicker than you can say, okay, God, we, er, actually mean it this time?

The excitement lasts as long as it takes me to make out the sad, Magee-suited figure of Cillian in the front gorden and he's doing something involving a drill, though at first I'm not sure what, because he's got, like, his back to me? I stop at the front gate and watch him, my eyes just, like, boring into the back of his head, imagining I'm that drill-bit, making a hole in his skull.

For five, maybe 10 minutes, I stand like this before I cop that what he's actually doing is putting up a sign - as in one of those name plaques? - the kind that skobies put on their gaffs, calling them things like Belle Vue, even though the Vue is actually a field full of horses, fridges and burnt-out cop cors.

"Honah Lee?" I go at the top of my voice, nearly making him drop the thing. "What the fock is Honah Lee?" "Ross," he goes, whipping around pretty shorpish. "You gave me a fright." I'm like, "What is it? I mean, does it actually mean anything?" "Honah Lee," he goes, suddenly smiling. "You've never heard of the land of Honah Lee?" Well, that's not saying much - I didn't know until this World Cup that there's an actual country called Fiji.

"It's from the song," he goes. "Puff the Magic Dragon. It's a surprise for Sorcha." I'm like, "Oh my God, that's her favourite song." He just nods.

I'm there, "That's. that's the most incredible idea for a present I've ever heard."

Of course my brain is trying to get a message to my mouth, as in, shut the fock up, roysh, this goy is the actual enemy, but it's like, no network, message sending failed.

I'm like, "Oh my God, Dude, that is going to get you major brownie points - and we're talking major!" He's there, "Thanks - well, it is her birthday." I'm like, "Whoa, I didn't know she'd a birthday in October." He goes, "No? When did you, er, think her birthday was?" and I'm there, "Hadn't a bog - she usually reminded me about a week in advance. Told me what she wanted. Her list of terms. Fair focks to you, though - I never would have thought of something like that." "Well," he goes, turning his back on me again, "I better get on with it - she'll be home soon." I'm like, "Part of me actually wants to stay, just to see her Ricky Gervais. She's actually going to love it." Of course, eventually, roysh, my brain manages to get through to my mouth. "You know you need my actual permission to put that up?" I hear myself go.

He stops and looks over his shoulder, with the electric screwdriver - I don't know - I suppose you'd have to say poised.

I'm there, "I'm just saying, it's still half my gaff." "Until the divorce comes through," he goes.

I'm like, "Whatever - all I'm saying is, if I told you to stop putting that up, you'd actually have to." "Are you asking me to stop?" he goes and it's obvious, roysh, that he's trying to make me feel, I don't know, small and petty for mentioning it.

I'm like, "No," and he's there, "Fine," and I'm like, "And that's my electric screwdriver, by the way," and he stops what he's doing again. I'm there, "Again - I'm just saying. But you can borrow it - it's cool, even though you didn't ask," and he goes back to work.

I just, like, hang there for a few more minutes, not knowing what to say next but for some reason not wanting to leave. Eventually, I'm like, "She loved that song when she was a little girl." "I know," he goes, without looking back at me this time. "Honor loves it too." I'm there, "You sing it to, like, Honor?" and he goes, "Every night . . ." Something suddenly hits me. I'm there, "Whoa - isn't it about, like, drugs and shit?" He throws his eyes up to heaven and goes, "No, Ross - that's a myth," and I'm suddenly stepping it up a gear. I'm like, "Oh, really? I think we'll let the courts decide that, will we? You know, suddenly I'm beginning to see things from Kevin Federline's POV..."

"Ross," he goes, really patronising, "Puff the Magic Dragon is about the end of childhood and the beginning of adolescence. A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys; painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys." I'm there, "I mean, what's next? You gonna put her name down for a methadone programme or something?" "It's not about drugs," he goes. "It's about how, at some point in our lives, we all have to stop acting like little babies, difficult and all as that is for some of us." I'm like, "Gimme the focking screwdriver - I've changed my mind." He laughs. He laughs in my actual face.

"Take it," he goes, dropping it on the ground and actually making me go into the gorden to pick it up.

I'm like, "Let's see how you get on without this," and I just hold the screwdriver in front of his face. Then I go out through the gate again and just, like, hold it above my head in, like, triumph.

He shrugs his shoulders, like he doesn't actually give a fock? "My drill has a screwdriver attachment," he goes.

All I can think to say before I storm off up Newtownpork Avenue is, "Mine!" Which is childish, I know. But then so is divorce.