‘Our daughter is nothing like Donald Trump, Sorcha – aport from the tan and the vengefulness’

It’s, like, the first day back at school for Honor and she eats her muesli with the quiet, steely-eyed intensity of me doing my traditional 500 sit-ups on the first morning of the Six Nations Championship.
Sorcha tries to get a conversation going. She’s like, “Now, don’t forget to actually enjoy the experience of being head girl?” like Honor needs to be told. “I know from my own year in the role, I was – oh my God – so busy, but I still tried to set aside some time each week to reflect on whether I was getting something out of the experience?”
Honor’s there, “Yeah, great story, Mom.”
And Sorcha goes, “I don’t think there’s any cause for sorcasm,” and 20 seconds later, she recycles and storts another phase. “Also, be mindful of the legacy you want to leave behind. Remember that people are going to look back on your time as Mount Anville head girl and say, ‘Yes, but what did she stand for?’ In my case, it was obviously togetherness and then environmental sustainability towards the end.”
Honor’s like, “I’m going to put my uniform on”, and she gets up from the table and focks off upstairs.
I’m there, “You’re trying too hord, Sorcha.”
She goes, “I’m just trying to find out what’s going on in her head.”
I’m like, “Teenagers are a mystery. You might as well ask why it gets dork at night. Nobody knows.”
She’s there, “All the parent WhatsApp groups are full of speculation about what kind of head girl she’s going to be. People are saying that maybe she won’t be as bad everyone fears? But then they said the same thing about Donald Trump when he got elected and he turned out to be worse.”
I’m there, “Our daughter is nothing like Donald Trump, Sorcha – aport from the tan and the vengefulness.”
Sorcha produces her iPad and goes, “Here, look at this. I’ve put together a collection of photographs of her standing at the front door on the first day of term every year since she first storted school.”
She pushes it across the table to me and I swipe through 12 or 13 photographs of the girl. In every single one she’s raising either one or two fingers to the camera.
I think we already know what her legacy is going to be.
All of a sudden, the kitchen door swings open and in walks Wendy Wagoner, the PR guru whose services Honor has retained for the next 12 months.
She’s like, “Good morning, Ross! Good morning, Sorcha! How are we feeling?”
I’m there, “I’m feeling kind of curious as to how you managed to get into my house without ringing the focking doorbell. Can you materialise through walls – is that, like, your superpower?”
The woman goes, “Honor had a key cut for me. I don’t have time to stand around waiting for doors to be opened. Now, which of you is driving Honor to school today?”
Sorcha’s like, “Er, both of us?”
Wendy goes, “Both of you?” and then she looks at me. “Including you?”
I’m there, “Yeah, no, it’s a tradition.”
She makes a square out of her thumbs and forefingers and sort of, like, frames me in it?
“Yes, I think it works,” she goes, “A brown or cream-coloured cargo pant. A cableknit sweater, fawn or mustard, thrown about the shoulders. Rugby-loving, centrist dads are having a real moment again.”
I’m there, “This one is definitely having a moment, Wendy.”
But she ignores me, turns to Sorcha and goes, “And what about you? What are you planning to wear for the school run?”
Sorcha’s like, “Er, pretty much what I’m wearing now?”
But Wendy goes, “No, no, no, no – that won’t do.”
Sorcha’s there, “Excuse me?” because she’s spent weeks deciding on her outfit for today, a process that involved mood boards and weekend shopping trips to Paris and London.
Environmental sustainability, my focking orse.
Wendy goes, “You look like you’re trying without wanting it to look like you’re trying.”
Sorcha’s there, “Yes, Wendy, that’s the look I happen to be going for?” because she’s getting as pissed off with the woman as I am. “I know about fashion. I had a boutique in the Powerscourt Townhouse Centre for years, can I just point out?”
Wendy looks her up and down three or four times, then shakes her head and goes, “No, the whole thing is working way too hord for me. We might put you in a blazer with skinny jeans and kitten heels.”
Sorcha ends up basically exploding. She’s like, “I’ll wear what I decide to wear, thank you!”
Wendy cold-smiles her and goes, “Oh, dear – one of those moms! Please try to remember that this is your daughter’s year, not yours,” and then the woman’s phone rings and she answers it and goes, “Oh, hello, yes, I’ve left the door open – come down to the kitchen.”
Twenty seconds later, in walks a girl who’s, like, twenty, maybe twenty-one, and she introduces herself to us as Wivina.
“Wivina is my daughter,” Wendy goes. “She’s going to be interning for Honor.”
Sorcha’s there, “Can I just say that I didn’t need a PR person – or an intern – when I was Mount Anville Head Girl?”
But Wendy’s like, “That was a long, long time ago,” which is a low blow. “The role has changed significantly since then. Wivina is going to be looking after Honor’s social media.”
A second or two later, our daughter arrives downstairs, dressed for school.
Wendy goes, “I thought we might do one or two photos at the front door.”
Sorcha’s like, “Yes, that’s another one of our traditions.”
Wendy’s there, “Would you mind terribly if Wivina took them? She has a very good understanding of what works across various platforms.”
And that’s when Sorcha decides that she’s had enough of Wendy’s S, H, one, T.
She goes, “It’s my daughter’s final first day at school. I’ll take the photographs,” and she sort of, like, shoulders Wendy and Wivina out of the way as Honor takes her place in front of the door.
“Remember, don’t smile,” Wendy goes. “People might expect something from you. It was Michael O’Leary who taught me that.”
Sorcha takes about 20 photographs. Honor has decided to go with two middle fingers this year – probably a sign of what’s to come.
“Okay,” Wendy goes, “let’s get you to school.”
And I have to admit it – I actually gulp.