WALKING to school the other day, my son - eight-years-old, just starting P5 and with a wonderful inability to ration his speech - went quiet just long enough for me to wonder if something was wrong.
"Daddy, can I ask you a question?" he said eventually, in an earnest tone of voice.
This, as any parent will know, is child-code for: "Hold tight, because just about anything could come out of my mouth."
Summoning my courage, I counter-punched - with, I like to think, an expertly-judged balance of paternal gravitas and nonchalance - by responding: "Of course you can, Isaac. What is it?"
I don't remember, but I may even have given a little laugh - a bit like what a smiley face emoji would sound like - because experience tells me that this can soften the blow of whatever comes next.
"This might be a silly question..." - my antennae were really on high-alert now - "...but what exactly is a Brokenshire?"
It was a good question, given added pathos - or should that be bathos? - because he posed the question in a way that reminded me of Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet debating what exactly a Woozle was. Or a Heffalump or Backson, for that matter; what, after all, is a Brokenshire?
Isaac takes a keen - well, for an eight-year-old anyway - interest in politics, including what generally passes for it in Northern Ireland.
He has even been known to read the Irish News, and thanks to our extensive use of headshots to accompany stories he is quite good at identifying politicians.
This prompts sage comments such as, "He got those flags taken down because he is a republican, didn't he?", made in response to a story in January involving budget-dodging finance minister Máirtín Ó Muilleoir ordering a Union flag to be taken down from a departmental office.
He has plenty to say about RHI, too, and is as perplexed as the rest of us at how a scheme that pays back £1.60 for every £1 spent on fuel ever got out of nursery school.
An underwhelming visit to his school by Arlene Foster, in her erstwhile role as first minister, was met with a cool response - "She didn't even speak to all the children and she smiled like Hillary Clinton" - and he was fascinated by the Trump election, mainly because he didn't like the idea of the Mexican wall. To smile "like Hillary Clinton" is not a good thing, by the way.
His suspicion of President Trump has only deepened, in particular because his administration has removed Yellowstone's Grizzly bears - just about his favourite animals - from the endangered species list.
And don't get him started on North Korea...
I know parents who actively avoid talking about politics or what they darkly refer to as "the news" with their children.
Being dangerous radicals, however, we take a different tack, on the basis that we reckon that knowing a bit about politics and "the news" is, in fact, more important than Ant and Dec's latest project, Strictly Come Dancing or taking as gospel everything that appears on Twitter and Facebook.
But back to "What is a Brokenshire?"
Further cross-examination revealed that Isaac had long-thought that 'secretary of state James' was a title, in much the way that one might say 'Pope Francis' or 'Queen Elizabeth', but that he wasn't quite sure what the suffix 'Brokenshire' meant.
It transpired that his best guess was that 'Brokenshire' was a sort of military title like lieutenant or captain, and possibly one related to the ancient code of chivalry as exemplified by figures such as Norman knights or El Cid - an arcane link, no doubt, but one explained by Isaac's enthusiasm for battles, swords, history and derring-do.
This is far more exciting than the reality. Obviously.
But 'secretary of state James Brokenshire' didn't look much like a brave warrior versed in the vagaries of how to correctly hold a sword at the Battle of Hastings, never mind Charlton Heston as the Cid, the "purest knight of all". Who does?
"What is a Brokenshire?" was asked that particular morning as a follow-up to a much earlier question about "What's happening at Stormont today?" - a perennial Isaac question.
I had explained that "secretary of state James Brokenshire" was going to hold meetings with the political parties.
I didn't even have to suggest that this was not going to yield any sort of positive outcome.
He had worked that one out for himself - things really are bad when even an eight-year-old realises that the involvement of 'secretary of state James Brokenshire' in the political process amounts to a monumental waste of time.
That evening, Isaac and his friend Joel were busy inventing a new game and writing its rules. These are long and complex, but the boys remain confident that in due course 'Spaceball' will yield both fame and fortune.
'Spaceball' involves tying a long length of rope between a spacehopper and a climbing frame.
Next, you boot the spacehopper as hard as you can at your opponent, in the sure knowledge that - if you've got your knots tied properly, which apparently takes a bit of experimentation - it won't launch into the neighbour's garden.
Go on, try it for yourself - you know you want to. And at least it is a better use of time than wondering what on earth secretary of state James Brokenshire is doing, whether you are eight or 88.
