Sorcha knows my game. She can read me like the instructions on an airplane vomit bag

It’s true what they say – travel really does broaden the mind. And even though I’ve never seen the point of having loads of knowledge in my head when pretty much everything is available on the internet, you can still end up learning things when you go abroad whether you like it or not.
I’m actually thinking these admittedly deep thoughts while knocking back a few cans of the Dutch stuff in Oisinn’s gaff. We’re heading to Borbados tomorrow to repatriate – his word? – a yacht belonging to some rich dude who spent six weeks sailing it around the Caribbean but couldn’t be orsed bringing it home.
Oisinn unfurls a giant roll of paper, which turns out to be a map, and this is where the knowledge thing comes into it, because he’s showing me the distance between Bridgetown and west Cork and I’m telling him that I’ve never actually seen a map of, like, the world before?
I’m there, “It’s random, isn’t it? So which one is the land and which one is the sea?”
The dude has known me for, like, 25 years, but I can still shock him with the depth of my ignorance.
He goes, “The blue is obviously the sea, Ross, and the green is obviously the land.”
I’m there, “Are you sure?”
He’s like, “This is going to be a long four weeks.”
And I think, Amen to that. It should be just about long enough for Sorcha to calm down over the whole me-converting-our-children-into-Protestants thing and hopefully take me back. In the meantime, I’ve got a month of hopefully boozing and sunbathing ahead of me.
I’m there, “Ronan was saying there’s good fishing in and around Borbados. He told me they’ve got, like, tuna that are the size of a small family cor. As I said to him, you wouldn’t get many of them into a tin!”
He laughs, in fairness to him.
I’m like, “By the way, do you think I’ll be okay to wear these shoes?”
He’s there, “What?”
“I’m worried about getting them wrecked,” I go, “you know, with the salt water?”
He’s like, “Ross, you’re wearing Dubes. They’re literally sailing shoes.”
See, I’m always forgetting that?
I’m there, “Yeah, no, good point. Dude, I honestly haven’t looked forward to a holiday like this since we went to Australia for the 2003 World Cup.”
He goes, “We can borbecue on deck every evening, then take a dip in the ocean before we go to bed at night.”
I’m there, “Here’s to being separated, Dude!”
Just as we’re clinking cans, the front doorbell rings and Oisinn pops outside to answer it. I knock back a mouthful of the good stuff and I’m suddenly thinking about how, like, proud I am of my friend? He’s on to a seriously good thing with this new business idea of his.
That’s when the door opens again and in he walks, followed by – believe it or not – Sorcha. Yeah, no, I told her that I was going to be staying here until she finally comes to her senses.
She’s there, “Hi.”
And I’m like, “Hey.”
“I was wondering if we could talk,” she goes.
I’m there, “Talk? About what?”
She’s like, “About us.”
I’m there, “Oh, right – I was going to get an early night, just to warn you. Me and the Big O are heading to Borbados in the morning.”
She goes, “Borbados?” in that ‘well for some’ tone that you used to hear from taxi drivers dropping you to the airport during the years of the crash.
I’m like, “I hate to rub it in – but it’s, like, trip-of-a-lifetime stuff.”
“Even though your marriage is on the floor?” she goes.
I’m there, “You were the one who said she needed space from me. There’s a lot of space between here and Borbados, by the way. I can show it to you on Oisinn’s map there.”
“I don’t need to see it on a map,” she goes. “Ross, don’t make this hord for me – I’ve come here tonight to apologise to you.”
This ends up throwing me for a loop.
I’m there, “Apologise?”
She goes, “I took the boys to St Adomnán’s today – for their Orientation Day? And, Ross, it’s an – oh my God – amazing school.”
I’m like, “I hate to say I told you so. I did, though.”
She goes, “They have a 50m pool, nine hockey pitches and a 300-seat theatre and concert hall. And the school is fifth nationally in the Leaving Cert results table.”
I can suddenly see where this conversation is heading – and I don’t like it one little bit.
She goes, “I’m not saying that I’ve fully forgiven you for lying to me. But I totally understand why so many south Dublin parents pretend to be Protestants to get their children in there.”
I do a big theatrical yawn, then I go, “Like I said, Sorcha, early stort in the morning.”
She’s like, “Ross, I’ve decided to take you back.”
I’m thinking, No! Your timing couldn’t be focking worse here!
I’m there, “What about what your old man said? I’d only hurt you again, Sorcha. And what was it your old dear called me? A sociopath?”
She goes, “For once in your life, Ross, I think you did the wrong thing for the right reasons.”
I’m there, “Sorcha, think of everything I’ve put you through – even this year alone. I was playing padel with another woman behind your back! I got a Leinster tattoo without discussing it with you first! I turned your children Protestant!”
She goes, “Are you actually trying to talk me out of taking you back?”
I’m there, “I’m just saying that maybe your old pair have a point. Give yourself some time to think things through – and then decide?”
She knows my game. She can read me like the instructions on an airplane vomit bag. She goes, “No, Ross, I’ve made up my mind. I want our marriage to work.”
Sandy beaches, green seas, barracuda – it’s all disappearing before my eyes.
I’m there, “Sorcha, as your old man said to you at the altar all those years ago, I think you’re making a terrible mistake here.”
“And as I said to him,” she goes, “I’ll just have to live with that. Pack your things – we’re going home.”