As we drove through the winding back roads we kept hitting potholes; they seem to have multiplied since Ireland’s economy crashed a few years ago.
The Girl drew a picture in the back seat, and whenever we hit a pothole she grumbled that it ruined her drawing. Sorry, I said, it’s the road doing it.
“Every time it does that, I must erase and do everything over,” she said.
I lowered my voice to something more like Cookie Monster. Road sorry, I said in character. Road not mean hurt feelings.
“Curse you, road!” she said, playing along with the joke and shaking her fist.
Oh, road sad now, I said. Stress makes road break out in more potholes.
“No!” she said grinning and sounding more soothing. “I take it back – poor road, no one takes care of you, do they?”
Road just pawn in game of life, I said.
“Papa, why road talk like Hulk?”
Photo: Our neighbour's antique car on the road in front of our land.