I am over halfway through a great novel by Cormac McCarthy which I picked up in a second hand bookshop during the week. It is titled The Road and details the relationship between a father and son as they struggle to survive in a post apocalyptic world of predatory hostility. As the father of a six year old boy, the story has a certain resonance beyond the book. But whereas the father in McCarthy’s novel is loyal to a fault my son regards me as a cheat.
Usually when he tires in the evening, as a prelude to going to bed, he asks for his cuddle which has to be from me otherwise there is a protest. Each night we go through the ritual of ‘last one up the stairs is a rotten egg.’ He positions himself in the hall closest to the stairs before making the announcement. As I usually try to con him out of his victory he has grown wise to all the ruses and will no longer accept the offer of sweets or an invitation to look at the fireworks or exotic creatures out the back. My promise of €5, temptingly visible in my outstretched hand, he treats like a wily fox would a trap, something to be shunned. On this occasion he put sufficient distance between us so that he would be out of my physical reach, his path to the bedroom and triumph unhindered. So sure was he of being first across the line, he even told me the rules allowed me to play one of my customary tricks.
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