‘Come on, get in! Road trip! Road trip!’ She’s chanting at me like a football fan and I’m the opposing team, grinning at me like a loon. I’m still shuffling around the house, trying to find all of the various electronic gizmos and gadgets. We were supposed to leave two hours ago but, being the people we are, have been distracted by:
- Ignoring alarm clocks. That one was me. What can I say, I like sleep? She with her soldier’s demeanour was up at seven, pretending to be ready to go.
- Breakfast. Food is important and breakfast, as they say, is the most important meal of the day.
- I reached a really interesting part of my book.
- She decided that she had the plague, due to some mysterious black spot on her hand. Turns out, it was a spot of black paint that she’d leaned on. ‘Blind Pew has come a calling. What are you guilty of?’ I call from my room, searching hurriedly for another pair of matching socks. I could have sworn that I had a pair of matching ones somewhere.
- I reached another really interesting part of my book. I may have lied about the searching for socks.
- We had to WebMD the black spot on her hand. ‘It might not be paint!’ If it doesn’t come off when she washes it, she’s got the plague or cancer.
We finally, after much deliberation, forcible removal of the book from my grasping fingers, a scourer to her hand but we are finally ready to go. Ish.
Three minutes down the road, we’ve turned around. ‘I forgot my toothbrush.’ She says, guiltily squeezing past our parents to get the offending article. She slinks back to the car, where I have just been fiddling with the radio. Radio 4 all the way!
‘No.’ She glares at me, an intense blue eyed stare. I never understood how genes have worked. I’m tall, dark-haired and handsome with green, brown, blue…. A variety of eye colours. Well, I’d say I’m handosme. . She’s short, blonde and… No idea how I’m finishing that sentence without offending somebody. But we’re very different in looks. Our demeanour however, couldn’t be more similar.
By which I mean that another five minutes have passed and we’re in a shouting match. ‘I’m driving, I get to choose the music!’
‘I have to sit here! Why can’t I choose?’ I figured she’d cave.
We’ve been driving in silence for the last twenty minutes. She didn’t cave. ‘You were supposed to take a left there.’ She tells me to shut up as she indicates left at the next set of traffic lights. Her blonde bob swishes from side to side as she checks her mirrors, blind spots, everything rigorously checked and rechecked. Of course I only catch this out the corner of my eye as I’m nose deep in a book.
‘Any good?’ She’s more into classics, I’m more sci-fi. ‘Shit, was I taking the M18?’
‘You might have been, I wouldn’t.’
‘Roger, roger.’ She says, mimicking the droid from star wars. Now the accents start. Russian (badly), Arabic (badly), Irish (surprisingly good from me)… A whole host of them in fact. ‘Why are we even going to Scarborough anyway?’
‘Because I’m a massive nerd and you’re the best sister ever.’
‘That’s right. You need to get a job though.’ She smiles, but with a hint of sadness and worry.
Image source: http://www.wallpapervortex.com/wallpaper-55916_star_wars_roger_roger_droids.html#.V27vkPkrLIU
It has a name!!
The Idiot in Tin Foil