Esther McCarthy: Trump, tequila and terrible parents in New York

I end up having to sleep on a bench in the fancy lobby. I am woken by the doorman on the phone. “Yesssir, I got your morning papers here, Mr K, and your nanny. She came in last night stinking of alcohol.” The dirty fecking snitch. 

Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn

“And that’s the living room, Mr W is in there right now. You know who’s in there with him?” the maid stops her tour and looks at me expectantly. “No clue,” says I.

“Donald Trump,” she says, (almost triumphantly). “Oh, right,” says I, peeking in. Two ould businessmen in an all-white lounge, big deal. My mind is on loftier affairs.