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Sorcha is quiet this morning. I honestly haven't seen her this distracted since she got a girl sacked for plucking her eyebrows in a way that made her face look – her word – quizzical? And she keeps asking the same question that she asked that day: "Am I, like, a bad person?"
I'm there, "No," because you'd have to say that with the mood she's in. "Do you want me to possibly drive?"
But she’s like, “I’m happy driving. It helps me think.”
"Yeah, no, it's just you had two wheels up on the kerb back there," I go. "And that was, like, a red light you just drove through?"
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'The point is that I made a speech saying we needed to make decisions – hord decisions. And here I am, port of a privileged elite sitting on this little pocket of land that no one is allowed to build on – as in, like, ever?'
“It was focking orange,” she goes, so I end up saying nothing for the next, like, 10 minutes, even when she clips the wing mirror of a Subaru Forester that’s double-porked outside 64 Wine with its hazards on.
“I’m storting to think that Gwen Loscher was possibly right,” she goes, “when she called me a hypocrite”.
Yeah, no, she hasn’t been herself since the residents’ association meeting last week to discuss our special zero-zero zoning status, which prevents anyone from putting one brick on top of another in Killiney and Dalkey ever again.
I’m like, “Why do you think you’re a hypocrite?”
“Because,” she goes, “we have a housing crisis in this country. I’ve stood up and made speeches about it”.
I’m there, “I wouldn’t say many people noticed.”
“Excuse me?”
“It was in the Seanad, Sorcha. You even said it – you might as well have been talking to yourself. Wasn’t there a dude, like, steam-cleaning the corpet while you were trying to read?”
"The point is that I made a speech saying we needed to make decisions – hord decisions. And here I am, port of a privileged elite sitting on this little pocket of land that no one is allowed to build on – as in, like, ever?"
I’m there, “It’s Killiney, Sorcha. We like a bit of elbow room around here. We don’t want to live so close to our neighbours that we’re smelling each other’s lunch.”
But she suddenly hands me her phone, then tells me to dial Gwen's number and put it on, like, speaker phone? Ten seconds later, Gwen answers. She's like, "Hello?" sounding already defensive – although that's how everyone answers the phone around here. There's always some focker who wants something from you.
"Gwen," Sorcha goes, "I've been doing some, like, serious, serious soul-searching – about what you said?"
Gwen’s like, “And?”
"And I've decided that you're possibly right. My position in relation to the housing crisis is incompatible with my chairpersonship of a group that's in favour of blocking new development as an actual principle."
Gwen goes, “I’m sorry I lost my temper, Sorcha. I just think we’re being selfish. Just because we have money, it doesn’t mean we’re morally entitled to keep Killiney and Dalkey all to ourselves.”
“You’ve made me see that, Gwen. And I want to thank you.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to call another meeting so that we can have a frank and open debate on the matter.”
“They won’t like that, Sorcha. Not everyone around here thinks like we do.”
“Well, if they don’t like it, they can find another chairperson.”
When Gwen has hung up, Sorcha tells me to send a message to the Vico WhatsApp group, which she dictates to me while she’s taking a right turn – without indicating, by the way, although I manage to not mention it.
It’s like, “I think we need another meeting to discuss the whole zero-zero thing. It would be helpful if we went into it with an open mind.”
“An open mind?” I go. “Sorcha, are you absolutely sure about this?”
She’s like, “Send it, Ross,” which I do.
Ten seconds later, Sorcha’s phone beeps.
“It’s Andrea Shotton,” I go. “She wants to know if this means you’ve changed your mind.”
Sorcha's like, "Tell her yes, but maybe mention that we live in a democracy and it's something I'm entitled to do?"
I’m there, “Do you not think that’s going to maybe escalate s**t?”
She goes, "Just focking write it, Ross," which is what I end up doing?
Within 30 seconds, her phone is pinging like a slot machine paying out.
“What’s everyone saying?” she goes – because Mount Anville girls never stop caring about that kind of s**t.
I stort scrolling down through the responses and I’m there, “I’m not sure you’re going to like this, Sorcha.”
She goes, “Just read them to me.”
I’m there, “Tom Randall says you’re the worst chairperson that the residents’ association has had in more than 50 years. Liz Cannon says – Jesus – she always knew we were New Money and you’ve just proved it once and for all. Joy Felton says – yeah, no, that’s just something about me mowing the grass with my top off and my boardshorts that she insists are actually boxer shorts. I don’t know why she has to look out the window.”
I'm there, 'If it blocked our view of Bray Head, it wouldn't matter. It'd probably add a mill or two to the value of the house. But this is Sorrento Terrace and Dalkey Island we're talking about, Sorcha'
“Who else?” she goes.
I'm there, "Francis Fenwick says you should resign. Melissa Brock says you should resign. Attracta Byrne says you should consider your position – oh, and then resign."
“Fine,” Sorcha goes. “I’ll resign. Write it, Ross. Two words. I resign.”
I’m there, “Are you sure about this?”
She goes, “Tell them I resign, Ross.”
So that’s what I do. Ten seconds later, there’s another message from Joy Felton. I read it and I’m like, “Oh, fockety fockety fock-fock.”
“What?” Sorcha goes.
I’m there, “Joy says that Gwen clearly got to you – and what she obviously hasn’t told you is that she wants to knock down their house and build a block of aportments in its place.”
Sorcha stares at the road ahead and I notice her suddenly grinding her teeth.
“Whatever,” she eventually goes. “Seventy or 80 people could live comfortably on that land.”
I’m there, “But wouldn’t it block our view of, like, Sorrento Terrace and Dalkey Island?”
“That doesn’t matter,” she tries to go, not wanting to admit that she’s been stiffed here.
I’m there, “If it blocked our view of Bray Head, it wouldn’t matter. It’d probably add a mill or two to the value of the house. But this is Sorrento Terrace and Dalkey Island we’re talking about, Sorcha.”
She doesn’t say anything – just keeps grinding her teeth as she sails straight through another orange slash red light.
“Oh my God,” I go. “What the fock have you done?”