Before the dawn of time, before Ngurunderi went hunting Ponde down the river, before the dinosaurs, before Eden, some say the hole was already there.
Perhaps an errant bit of star fell to earth, or a diprotodon suffered an uncomfortable bowel movement.
Perhaps it was there, beneath the bitumen, through the age of steam and the advent of the motor car, and we just never noticed it.
Perhaps God was trying to destroy the old Bridgeport Hotel and settle the whole argument once and for all, but missed.
Perhaps there is no political capital lying around, waiting to be expended, at the moment.
Perhaps someone, somewhere figured the pub was going to get the chop anyway, so it might as well sit there until the job is done.
Perhaps it's now a memorial to humankind's wasteful and ill-fated attempt to control the natural universe, the earth and the rain.
Perhaps the awkwardness of its location – at the intersection of a state road, Bridge Street, and a council road, East Terrace, with private property a few metres away on this side and a national rail tunnel a few metres beneath – has thrust it into some sort of bureaucratic Bermuda Triangle, where aircraft disappear, mysteries are born and great big holes go un-fixed.
Perhaps we're imagining the whole (hole?) thing.
Perhaps there is no hole.
Perhaps we are the holes.
Perhaps this columnist has passed it so often he has lost his mind.
That seems the most likely explanation.
But an explanation is not yet something that has been forthcoming from our authorities local, state, federal, natural, immortal or phantasmagorical.
So we wait for the hole to be filled in and the road to be re-opened, as we have waited for almost eight weeks now.
How long can it take?