Sorcha goes, “This is exciting, isn’t it, Ross?” because – yeah, no – we’re having dinner in Iguazu, a new hipster restaurant on Camden Street, where there’s no actual menu and an algorithm chooses what you’re going to eat based on the answers you provide to 10 questions when you’re booking.

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Dalisay says she’s in the pool. I’m like, “The pool?” “Yes,” she goes. “Your mother likes to swim every morning. Would you like to see her?” I’m there, “In a way, no? But I suppose that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? So I suppose – yeah, no – lead the way.” I walk with her from the old dear’s private ward to the actual gym.

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The Broken Orms is absolutely packed to the rafters for the engagement porty of Tina, the mother of my firstborn, to Tom, her fireman boyfriend, who famously played 300 matches in the All Ireland League, albeit for Bornhall.

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So – yeah, no – I’m in Dunnes Stores in, like, the Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre, grabbing a few bits for Sorcha, who’s making a special dinner tonight. I dump my items on the checkout belt and make a mental note to find out if it’s her birthday, or our wedding anniversary, when all of a sudden I hear an old woman’s voice go, “Mind if I just go ahead of you there, son?”

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Honor walks through the arrivals gate with a face as long as a wet weekend in Knock and I take it as read that the week in St Moritz was a bit of a let-down?

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It would be an understatement to say that Honor was never the most popular girl growing up. As a matter of fact, on the very rare occasions when she was invited to a porty, Sorcha used to sew cubes of pancetta into the hem of her dress so that at least the family’s dog would play with her.

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The old man and Hennessy look a total state in their chef’s uniforms. Yeah, no, they’ve invited us all around to the old pair’s gaff for a New Year’s Eve dinner, a dry run – their words – for when the two of them supposedly buy and then reopen Shanahan’s on the Green.

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So I’m, like, standing out on the balcony and – yeah, no – I’m vaping like a crazy person and I’m going, “Remember, goys, your old dear is going to be under a lot of pressure today.”

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The old dear smiles and I end up having to look away. I’m there, “Can you at least put your teeth in?”

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Sorcha says she knows me. She knows me inside-out. But I tell her that the Rossmeister General still has one or two surprises in his locker.

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So – yeah, no – it’s that magical night of the year again when we all sit down as a family and write our letter to Santa Claus. We’ve the Bublé CD on and we’re all wearing our Christmas jumpers.

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