‘I knew two windscreen wipers would come in handy’

Having argued his case for road safety with great ease, economy of effort and conviction — like the lawyer that he is — and banned me from picking him up from Cork airport in my “mobile skip,” my brother-in-law arrives in a hire car.

He parks it alongside my old Nissan. And there it rests, all shiny-shiny, engine thrumming with great ease, economy of effort and conviction: frankly, I can see his point.

“An elegant solution,” I say, tapping the bonnet.

“An Opel Insignia,” he says, “safe, practical, two windscreen wipers.”

“You and your windscreen wipers,” I say.

“Will get us from A to B, no surprises,” he says.

“You and your surprises.”

“No straw.”

“You and your straw.”

“No dogs.”

“Good luck with that,” I say. Privately, I am warming to the idea of acquainting Tilly with Shiny-Shiny.

We drink tea in the conservatory and make a plan; we have the house to ourselves for the weekend and, as couples who’ve holidayed together for decades with our eight children, we are all eager to make this little bit of freedom go a long way: sleeping is high on the agenda.

“Lunch and a pint in Scannells, then back here, collect raingear, pick up Tilly, then walk,” my husband suggests. “She needs a walk, yes you do, don’t you Tilly? You best dog. Then Moloney’s later for fish and chips.”

“Shame about the weather,” I say, on the way to Scannells in Shiny-Shiny.

“I knew two windscreen wipers would come in handy for something,” my brother-in-law says.

“Good one,” I say.

Returning home we discover that my brother-in-law has acquired a long, white scratch on Shiny-Shiny’s dark blue paintwork. He has also acquired a laissez-faire attitude towards it, which we can only put down to two pints of Guinness.

“Someone must have bumped into it when we were in Scannells,” my husband says, looking quite upset.

“Par for the course,” my brother-in-law says, with great affection, climbing into the front passenger seat, “wouldn’t feel like home without it.”

“That Guinness good?” I say.

“Great,” my brother-in-law says, “it never tastes like that in England.”

We decide to take my Nissan to the beach. “There will be mud and rain and dog,” my husband says, “and what with the scratch...”

My brother-in-law folds himself up into the back seat obligingly.

He sits sandwiched between his wife on one side and lopping shears, bucket of alder catkins, coat, wellingtons and dog hair, on the other.

“I think I am sitting in an area reserved for growing potatoes,” he says fondly.

“Chuck the loppers into the back,” I say from the front passenger seat.

“Ah, the allottment,” he sighs nostalgically, “still the old allotment in the back seat.”

And when my husband turns on the windscreen wiper, he says, “ah, just the one. That really takes me back,” and passes me something from the back. “Here,” he says happily, “to wipe the windscreen. I knew I’d find a sock.”

That Guinness is good.

After our walk, my husband and I dispatch Tilly to the boot; she has disgraced us by rolling in fox shit and by our reckoning, the Guinness is just about to leave my brother-in-law’s bloodstream.

In the back seat, my brother-in-law rearranges his wife, garden spade, bucket of alder catkins, coat, wellingtons, dog hair, four empty Nicorette packets, three coffee cups, two scarves and one medium-sized cardboard box so as to optimise his comfort.

When he has accomplished this, Tilly flies through the air from the boot, past his ear and into his lap.

Silence descends on my Nissan.

“Oh good,” my brother-in-law says, “now we have the fertiliser for the allotment.”

That Guinness is good. That Guinness is really, really good.