A traffic accident near Milltown put idle-time upon Minogue. He switched off the engine and leafed through the postcards. RTE was playing Ravel. In honour of the weather, Minogue surmised. He had the tail end of a hangover from the party for promotions. He let down the window. The drops flicked onto his face.
He leafed through the postcards again. Minogue had bought the last three copies of the Magritte postcard which his daughter had discovered in the bookshop. He had bargained for an envelope for each. As usual, when he was faced by pen and paper, Minogue could think of nothing sensible to write. Nothing mawkish, though, that was for certain. He caught a motorist staring at him and remembered that his face was still that of a Halloween caller. Minogue then hastily wrote on Daithi's card. He stuffed the card into the envelope before he decided to change his mind about what he had written. Beside the card he inserted five crisp ten-pound notes and the business card for the travel agent in Abbey Street, the one that would give him a special deal. It'd probably be to the States, if he knew his son at all.
He was still examining the puffy-white clouds of the Magritte postcards when the horns started behind. He turned the ignition, but the engine didn't catch for several seconds. The road ahead was clearing.