Ross O’Carroll-Kelly: I’ve been shocked by the change that has come over my daughter since we moved to Terenure

I’m not going to lie, I’ve been shocked by the change that has come over my daughter since we moved to – I’m just going to come out and say it – Terenure?

She’s quiet, cranky and liable to explode in a rage at the least provocation. Mind you, she’s been like that since she emerged from her old dear’s womb with her two middle fingers raised to the world. It’s just that for the first time ever, she seems without – I don’t know – hope.

It’s a good job I’ve got a plan to get us out of here.

“A plan?” Honor goes, looking at me dubiously – like the time I suggested she get the bus to school. “What kind of plan?”

‘I have not had contact with my siblings for many decades, nor did I attend my parents’ funerals’

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I’m there, “One to get us out of this house once and for all.”

“But what does it involve?”

Whenever God feels like someone has mugged him off, he’ll send a load of locusts or frogs or rats to force people to cop on

I hold up the little matchbox.

I’m like, “It involves this.”

“Oh my God,” she goes, “are you going to burn the place down?”

Jesus, she hates Terenure more than I do – and she’s never played rugby against them. She’ll have to be watched more closely.

I’m there, “No, Honor, I’m not going to burn the place down. There’s more than one way to, I don’t know, blahdy blahdy blah. You do religion in school, don’t you?”

“No, I’m an atheist.”

“What, still? Your old dear thought that was something you’d hopefully grow out of.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“Okay, one of the things that keeps coming up again and again in the Bible is, like, plagues.”

“I’m listening.”

“As in, whenever God feels like someone has mugged him off, he’ll send a load of locusts or frogs or rats to force people to cop on.”

“So what’s in the box?”

“A cockroach.”

“A cockroach – as in, like, one?”

“It’s all I could get at short notice.”

“For fock’s sake.”

I actually hate working from the office now? Even, like, three days a week

“Trust me, Honor, one is all we’re going to need here. You won’t remember this, because you obviously weren’t born at the time, but Sorcha’s biggest fear when she went on her J1-er was cockroaches.”

“What, she’s, like, scared of them?”

“To the point of paranoia. She used to sweep the floor of her apartment in Montauk five times a day. Then she’d listen to Counting Crows or Matchbox Twenty all night long so she couldn’t hear them scuttling across the floor.”

“I focking hate Counting Crows. And Matchbox Twenty.”

“That’s because you were never on a J1-er in the late 1990s.”

“So, like, where did you get a cockroach?”

“Off Ronan. He knows a dude who unpacks the fruit deliveries in one of the supermarkets. You wouldn’t believe some of the insects he’s found in banana boxes over the years.”

She goes, “Let me see it.”

I show her the goods.

She’s like, “Oh my God, that is, like, so gross.”

Honor has a high tolerance threshold for disgusting things. I’ve seen her eat sun-dried tomatoes.

“Dave focking Matthews Band,” I go. “That’s another one she used to listen to.”

“Dad, seriously, take it away from me. So what’s the plan? Are you going to put it in her underwear drawer?”

I laugh. There’s real cruelty in the girl.

I’m there, “No, I was thinking I’d put it in the food cupboard.”

In Killiney, we had a lorder. Now, we have a food cupboard. It’s no wonder we’ve been driven to these desperate lengths.

She goes, “Put it in the polenta. It’ll hopefully put her off that shit as well.”

I’m like, “Not a bad idea, Honor. Not a bad idea at all.”

So out to the kitchen I trot. I open the – again – food cupboard and I whip out the plastic container where Sorcha keeps the polenta. Then I open the matchbox and I shake the little goy – or woman, not wanting to be sexist – into the mix.

Half an hour later, Sorcha arrives home from LinkedIn. She’s, like, giving out yords about some dude who beat her in a race for the last remaining hot desk after taking the stairs instead of the lift.

What about you? You who said it looks like something you’d find in the doorway of a Foot Locker on a Sunday morning

I resist the temptation to call the goy a hell of a competitor.

Instead, I go, “How, em, awful for you. You’ll hopefully feel better after you’ve eaten.”

She’s there, “I actually hate working from the office now? Even, like, three days a week.”

Honor’s like, “Yeah, great story, mom. We’re focking storving here.”

Sorcha takes the bait. She’s there, “So what do you want for dinner, dorling?”

“Polenta,” Honor goes.

I’m wondering is the set-up too obvious.

Sorcha’s like, “Polenta? I thought you both hated polenta?”

Honor goes, “I never said I hated polenta.”

She’s there, “You said it looks like it came from the orse of a shivering chihuahua.”

Honor can be very funny when you’re not the one on the end of it.

“Well, I’ve actually developed a taste for it,” Honor goes.

Sorcha looks at me then. She’s like, “And what about you? You who said it looks like something you’d find in the doorway of a Foot Locker on a Sunday morning — have you developed a taste for it as well?”

I’m there, “Yeah, no, I definitely don’t hate it as much as I did.”

“Okay, random,” Sorcha goes, “but polenta it is then”.

Out to the kitchen she trots and Honor gives me a big, excited smile.

I’m there, “I wonder did we possibly overdo it?”

She’s like, “We’re not going to have to actually eat the stuff. There’s a focking cockroach in it, remember?”

“No, I’m just wondering did we maybe make it obvious by asking her specifically for–”

All of a sudden, a scream rings out from the kitchen. It’s, like, a proper, horror movie scream? I give Honor a big wink and then I go racing out there, going, “What’s wrong?” with my voice full of pretend concern.

Honor is right behind me. She sees the plastic container on the ground and the polenta spilt all over the – I can hordly bring myself to say the words – laminate flooring.

Sorcha is, like, white in the face. And she’s still screaming, by the way, with her two hands covering her face.

Honor goes, “See? This is what happens when you live in a sh*te postcode.”

I’m like, “Sorcha,” still acting the innocent, “did you see, like, a spider or an earwig or something?”

And that’s when she says it. She goes, “No, Ross – I saw a ghost.”