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It’s finally here. A day I’ve dreamt about for, like, 12 years. Brian, Johnny and Leo are storting school in Castlerock College, where their old man famously went and his old man before him.
irishtimes.com
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Sorcha tells Honor that she’s leaving it very late.
Honor’s like, “What are you talking about?”
And Sorcha goes, “I’m talking about the debs, Honor.”
Honor’s there, “Not this again,” and she’s right because her old is like a dog with a chew toy.
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Sorcha says I can’t wear those.
And I’m like, “My Dubes? What’s wrong with my Dubes?”
She goes, “You can’t wear Dubes to a funeral, Ross. Put a pair of actual shoes on.”
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“Okay,” the old man goes, “here’s another one you, Kicker!” because – yeah, no – he’s written a book of his Fifty Years of Letters to The Irish Times, which Honor has helped pull together for him. “Listen to this one! Dear Madam. Whilst sorting through the vegetable tower in the kitchen the other morning, I discovered an oval-shaped tuber with a pale yellow flesh. Is this a record?”
No one laughs – except him, of course?
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“What the fock?” Oisinn goes. “Are you serious?”
I’m there, “Oh, I’m serious all right. I’m as serious as – well, you know what.”
He goes, “A living funeral? Where did this idea even come from?"
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“He must have been in a fight last night,” Sorcha goes.
And – yeah, no – she’s talking about my brother slash half-brother, Brett.
I’m there, “Why do you say he was in a fight?”
And she goes, “Oh my God, didn’t you see the bruises on his neck when he came home this morning?”
Seriously, sometimes it’s like she was never young at all.
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