The Journey

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Have you ever had a really frustrating journey?  One with enough moments of distress and discontentment to make you want to rip your hair out in chunks?  Trust me.  You haven’t.  Why?  Because I just know.                    

  Anyway, I suppose I’ll have to tell you about it.

  To start, Dad made us get up far too early.  I mean, it’s not as if we had a flight to catch!  We were only travelling to Glasgow.  I hate Glasgow.  It’s too grotty, grimy, polluted and enough litter on the streets to build a palace.  There’s too many one-way-streets to drive stressed parents to the brink of dementia.  Secretly, I call it ‘Heart Attack City.’  Too many deep-fried Mars Bars must muck up your insides.  

  Picture us; me, half-asleep still, sitting slurping juice, educating myself scouring the newspaper’s back pages.  My sister (who you must realise at that time was only nine) remained in bed.  My parents, (who both happen to be early risers) were charging around like headless chickens, furiously announcing jobs to be done.  I presumed they were aimed at myself.

  Now Dad is definitely the more paranoid parent, whilst mum is the one who never fails to say ‘Yes, don’t be stupid, of course I packed it.  You didn’t think I/we/you could possibly go without it, did you?’  Dads not disorganised, he usually makes lists, like “What-has-to-be-done-before-we-go-away.”  Here’s an example:

TO DO:

  • HEATING / WATER OFF
  • KEYS TO NEXT DOOR
  • TIMER SWITCHES
  • TICKETS / PASSPORTS

  Finally, packed up and ready to go, we sat waiting in the tightly-packed car.  Dad climbed in and we drove off.  

 No sooner in the car, Dad blurted out worriedly,

‘Did I lock the door?’  We assured him, w’de witnessed it.  Nevertheless, we sped off, back down the road, pulling up awkwardly.  Dad sprinted over, fumbling with his keys to check the door.  As anticipated, he returned, sheepishly.

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‘I just wanted to be certain, that’s all.’  I could have told him that for nothing.  

  For the second time, we prepared for ‘take-off.’  Or so it felt.  For goodness sake, it was Glasgow, not Timbuktu!  

The traffic jam reached us at Doncaster.  Mum was tired.  Dad was angry.  I was fed up and my sister was asleep.  Instead of sitting in a queue of foul smell-emitting vehicles, dad pulled up in the service station.  My sister woke up suddenly.  

‘Are we there yet?’  She asked hopefully.  No-one answered.  We clambered out of the car ...

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