The porty invitations were returned with the words, ‘Honor O’Carroll-Kelly? Are you focking kidding me?’

I‘ve always worried about Honor – from the time she emerged from her mother’s womb and gave a “fock you” look to the midwife who slapped her orse.
I’m going to hold up my hands here and admit that I’ve possibly spoiled her over the years, having decided very early on to give her absolutely everything that she wants out of fear of the hurtful things she might say to me, especially about my rugby career – or, as she would have it, lack thereof.
One thing that really concerned both Sorcha and me over the years was our daughter’s lack of friends. I could wallpaper our entire house with all the birthday porty invitations that were returned with the words, “Honor O’Carroll-Kelly? Are you focking kidding me?” scrawled on them in biro. And I happen to know that she keeps a little black book containing the names of all the childhood play-dates who ghosted her and on whom she’s promised to – her words – “rain down my vengeance when they least suspect it”.
What I’m trying to say is that she’s always had trouble fitting in? Which is why me and Sorcha are in such a state of shock when we turn into the cor pork of her school on Thursday and witness what’s happening.
Honor is leaning against a wall and she is surrounded by girls, hanging on her every word, laughing at her jokes and generally trying to get her attention.
I go, “Jesus, I haven’t seen that many Mounties fawning over one person since I scored a hat-trick against Blackrock College in Donnybrook on Valley’s Day ‘98.”
Sorcha says nothing. She was one of them.
I beep the horn and Honor sees Sorcha’s SUV porked there, idling away. She tells the girls that she’ll see them tomorrow and they watch her go like puppies in a dog pound.
She gets into the cor and Sorcha can’t stop herself going, “Oh my God, Honor!”
“The fock is that supposed to mean?” Honor goes – on the big-time defensive.
Sorcha’s like, “I meant it in a good way! You’re, like, Miss Popularity all of a sudden?”
Honor’s there, “Yeah, with a bunch of focking saps.”
Sorcha goes, “Don’t be like that, Honor. You should embrace this. That’s how the girls in this school used to look at me.”
[ ‘Ross, someone has put up a poster of Honor on Foster Avenue.’ Apporently kompromat is the solution?Opens in new window ]
I’m there, “Me too.”
Again, Sorcha decides not to take the bait.
She goes, “You’re Head Girl now, Honor. You’re going to have to get used to people wanting to be around you. They’re looking to you for leadership.”
Honor laughs like she used to when we used to watch videos on YouTube of celebrities in high heels snotting themselves on red corpets.
“Is that what you think?” she goes. “That’s so sad.”
Sorcha’s there, “Well, what are they looking for from you if it isn’t leadership?”
Honor’s like, “They’re looking to get on the skiing trip in January.”
Sorcha goes, “Oh my God! I forgot that it’s the Head Girl’s job to arrange the Sixth Year Skiing Trip.”
“Well, I’m not arranging it,” Honor goes. “Wivina is looking after everything.”
Wivina is her intern. Honor is the first Head Girl in the school’s history to hire a personal assistant and an intern. Oh, and a Chief of Staff, if you count my old man.
Sorcha goes, “So where are you going? Our year went to Verbier. It’s in, like, Switzerland?”
Honor’s there, “Well, we’re going to St Mortiz.”
“Oh my God,” Sorcha goes, “your grandfather Chorles has a timeshare villa in St Moritz, doesn’t he, Ross?”
Honor’s there, “Er, yeah – that’s where we’re staying?”
“Oh,” Sorcha goes, a note of definite confusion in her voice as I stort the cor. Then 30 seconds later, as I’m beeping at an idiot in front of me who stopped on an orange light, she goes, “But doesn’t Chorles’s villa only hold 30?”
“Fifty,” Honor quickly goes.
Sorcha’s there, “Right,” and she’s obviously doing the maths in her head. “And how many people are in your year again?”
“One-hundred-and-forty,” Honor goes – ice in her veins.
Sorcha’s there, “So that’s going to be a lot of, em, disappointed girls.”
Honor’s like, “I know. Life sucks. You might as well find that out now.”
“Oh my God,” Sorcha goes, “it’s no wonder the girls were being so attentive.”
Honor’s there, “Do you think it was that?” even though she knows well that it was?
Sorcha goes, “Oh my God, you’re not going to, like, play them off against each other, are you?”
Honor reacts like she takes grave offence to this suggestion?
She goes, “How could you think that of me?”
[ Honor rubs at the graffiti with a dainty, circular motion, like she’s applying foundation to the face of an elderly loved oneOpens in new window ]
And Sorcha’s there, “I’m sorry, Honor, but how else are you going to decide who goes to St Moritz and who is left behind?”
Honor’s like, “Dynamic pricing, of course.”
Sorcha’s there, “Excuse me?”
“It’s the way of the world,” Honor goes. “I’m not going to actually tell them the price of the trip? I’m going to ask everyone to write down on a piece of paper how much they’d be prepared to pay to go to St Moritz. And the 50 highest bidders will get to go.”
Sorcha’s mouth falls open.
She goes, “Oh my God, you’re not actually going to do that, are you?”
Honor’s like, “Why not? Granddad said it’s called free morket economics. The girls should be paying me for the lesson.”
I laugh. She has an answer for everything. That’s why I usually stay out of her business.
Sorcha goes, “Ross, are you not going to talk to your daughter about this?”
I’m there, “What’s there to say? It seems to be all legit and above board – is it, Honor?”
Honor shrugs and goes, “I don’t care.”
I’m there, “There you are then. You heard it from the horse’s mouth.”
Sorcha goes, “So when is it going to be decided who’s going to get to go?”
Honor’s there, “The bids close at the end of September.”
And I’m like, “As someone who knows what it feels like to have Mounties looking at you adoringly, my advice, Honor, would be to enjoy it for as long as it lasts. Because last, it won’t.”