"All he can do is grip his crutches ’till his knuckles go see-through"

WE’RE about to make a road trip to my sister’s house in Sligo, to help revive us after recent hospitalisations.

Out of the blue, my husband’s friend offers us the use of his Land Rover; an offer he doesn’t retract even now when I hand him the keys of our old Toyota, which makes a noise like an aeroplane taking off, and has bird shit down it.

He just waves us off, all bonhomie and zen. “Enjoy the trip,” he says, “relax.”