A warm-beer-onewoman man, not a martini-cocktailPussy-Galore guy

YOUNG Persephone has always been a fierce one for asking impossible questions. ‘What’s your favourite colour, Da?’ Well, daughter, it depends. The blue in the eyes of your mother has a constant allure of course. But then I favour green (with white hoops) when choosing a soccer team. And red beats grey or blue every time when selecting a jumper. Does that answer your query?

‘Where would you live, Da, if you didn’t live in Ireland?’ I’ve always felt at home in Spain any time I’ve been there. But, with the effects of global warming, Spain will probably be a waterless desert in a few years’ time. I’d settle for settling in Vancouver. After all Vancouver is just like Ireland, with American accents.

‘Da, which is your favourite child – me or Eldrick? That’s the Eldrick who has just wrecked the frying pan by burning the last of the rashers and white pudding, by the way.’

If you think I’m answering that one, then you have another think coming. I love you both dearly and rest assured that you will receive your full fifty per cent of the inheritance. The price of a frying pan can be deducted from your brother’s share.

‘Which is better, opera or heavy metal?’ ‘Why is the Leaving Cert harder now than it was when you were a boy?’ ‘Why are hot dogs called hot dogs when they are made of pig and generally served lukewarm?’ The questions are lobbed into conversation from left field whenever the chat slows, like so many grenades tossed into a garden party. Our girl seems to regard silence as the enemy. Demanding to know whether I was a Beatles fan or a Stones nut in the sixties is her way of passing responsibility to me for keeping the enemy at bay.

‘If you were to be a character from literature, which one would it be?’

Well, I have always fancied myself as James Bond actually. I’d have to work on my six-pack maybe but wiggling a seductive eyebrow should be well within my range. Any excuse to meet Helen Mirren really.

‘No, Da, not Helen Mirren. It’s Judy Dench. Anyway, you would make a rotten Bond. You are more of a warm-beer-one-woman man than a martini-cocktail-Pussy-Galore guy. Try again.’

An authentically Irish character might be more the job then. How about yer man in James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’?

‘You mean Leopold Bloom.’

That’s him. If I am not up to saving the world from SMERSH, I should at least be capable of wandering along Sandymount Strand eyeing up the talent. Yes, put me down for Leopold Bloom.

‘Is that your final answer? You do realise that it will entail eating kidneys, a lot of kidneys, a lot of kidneys smelling of urine?’ Crikey. Forget I spoke. Start again.

Then how about Jack Reacher? ‘Have you ever killed one person, let alone fifteen before breakfast?’

Or how about Sherlock Holmes? ‘Do you seriously think you have an opium habit and an IQ of 197?’

Or how about Oliver? ‘You mean Oliver Twist? You are far too old. Fagan, perhaps, at a stretch.’

The well of inspiration appeared to be running dry. Then a smile crossed my tormentor’s freckled face: ‘Bingo! I have it. No need for makeup or props. This is you down to a tee.’ Share please.

‘The only problem is that this literary character is not really a hero, more of a bogey man really.’

Keep going.

‘Remember the other day you were out in the vegetable garden when you spotted a little bunny and started chasing it with your hoe, for fear it would attack your precious seedlings?’

Remember? Of course I remember. The cabbage patch could have been wiped out.

‘That moment was pure Beatrix Potter. A terrified intruder. A gardener intent on slaughter. You were, you are, Mister McGregor from ‘The Tale of Peter Rabbit’ in every last particular. Perfect. It’s Mister McGregor from now on.’