Michelle: Has anyone actually decided what way they're gonna vote for this referendum thing?
Erin: Since when did you get all political?
Michelle: I'm not all political. Not like Nelson Mandela.
Orla: I wish you were Nelson Mandela.
Michelle: It's just... Well, everyone keeps banging on about what a big deal it is.
Erin: Well, its timing couldn't be any worse. Did they have to choose the week of our party? Talk about pulling focus.
James: I'm sorry, is the Good Friday Agreement stealing your thunder?
Erin: A bit, yes.

Erin: You got the invites?
Orla: Oh...
James: "Literary greats and monkeys"?
Erin: We're being avant-garde.
Michelle: Is that like a type of monkey?
Orla: Yes.
Erin: No.

Aunt Sarah: And let's face it, you could be doing with a bit of bronzer, Mary.
Erin: I had it down here last night, remember? I was working on my novel.
Mary: It's on the phone table there.
Erin: My fountain pen?
Mary: My address book!
Erin: I'm not looking for your address book!
Aunt Sarah: You'd give Casper a run for his money, no offence.
Mary: Jesus Christ!

Clare: What's become of us? What has become of us?
Erin: Keep an eye on that kitchen window, you.
Clare: I want no part of this!
Erin: Well, you're in too deep now, Clare.
Clare: You're stealing a body!
James: Let's just get it over with, and never, ever speak of it again.
Michelle: Jesus Christ, my nails are fucking ruined!
Erin: Less talk, more digging.

Erin: Right, me and Michelle go stash it somewhere and the rest of you all fill it back in.
Father Peter: Open the box, Erin.
Erin: God!
Father Peter: Yes, he is with us. Do not be afraid, child.
[Erin looks away as she removes the lid to the cardboard box. Clare gasps.]
Erin: Erin: Listen, I can e... [looks down at the empty box] Oh, no, actually, I can't. I can't explain.
Father Peter: Thanks be to God!
James: Thanks be to God!

Sister Michael: OK, listen up, people! According to this, you're going to need a... well, they've used the term... "buddy", for tomorrow's activities.
Michelle: I bagsy Harry!
Erin: What? But that's not fair, he's the only good-looking one.
Dee: The rest of us are right here.
Michelle: You snooze, you lose, Erin.
Erin: I suppose I'll have you, then.
Dee: Aren't you a charmer?

Rita: Pop music isn't really my thing, truth be told. It's all so fucking soulless. Nah. I'm a classical head, all the way, but I've been banned from trading at Glyndebourne ever since I absolutely battered that Pavarotti fan. And when I say I battered, I mean intellectually, like. I did kick the shit out of him as well! Pavo's La Boheme is very muscular, but for purity of tone you simply cannot fault Bocelli. I mean, listen to that, girls. Pass us a can there.
Erin: A can of?
Rita: Beer.
Erin: I see. Alcoholic beer.
Rita: Oh, yeah, that's fucking beautiful.
Erin: While driving. OK. Fine. Good.
Rita: I mean, what a fucking instrument! Glorious!
Erin: Any idea what the speed limit is around here?
Clare: [holding t-shirt] "Robie"!?
Rita: Close your eyes, girls, and soak it up!
Erin: Sure. Of course. But maybe you could soak it up with your eyes open and, you know, on the road?

Erin: She won't even talk to me. She doesn't even want to sit beside me. In French, she moved next to Caoimhe Callaghan, so things must be really bad, because Caoimhe reeks of piss.