Ah, school holidays and the insane decision to go on a family holiday road trip. Which is always fun.
Especially as it starts with a good dose of spontaneity in the form of “Do we really need to sit around all evening once we’re packed? Lets go now!” before the suitcases are even out of their up-very-high storage space. So we hastily pack bags and leave on the Sunday afternoon as opposed to the stupidly early Monday morning as planned.
Neighbours worded and keyed-up so they could feed cats and watch the house and we’re off, with plans to at least get over the Victoria-NSW border before we stop for an sleep. We make it to Wangaratta (a mere two and a half hours up the road) for dinner, where I stupidly insist on Chinese because a) I felt the wanton soup would do wonders for the head cold I could feel coming on post the chest cold I was barely getting over, and b) because I had a salty dinner the night before and didnt’ want chicken and chips, the other option, cos it would be too salty.
Instead, we sat down to an extremly salty, from the mid 1970’s Chinese meal that we could barely eat. I then got to drive the next leg of the trip, anxious about Monkey Boy who doesn’t need the encouragement of a potentially suspect Chinese meal to induce vomitting on a long car journey.
Grumpy had decided to appease the kids – on my driving time – by inserting Monty Python sings into the CD player and forcing me to listen to Always look on the bright side of life 47 billion times, and I like Chinese several million more. I can assure you, by this time, there wasn’t much bright side of life to be looking at. I was forced to instill a “whoever is driving gets to choose the music” rule.
Do the inevitable “should we stop at the next town? It’s in 5k” thing, decide not to and have Chippie lose the plot just as we hit the next 110km speed limit sign, and no potential for doing a u-ey and heading back to the nearest hotel we just decided to “give a miss”. Arrive Gundagai at 10pm and attempt to locate hotel, which wasn’t as hard as we suspected.
Spontaneity can go fuck itself.
Wander around Gundagai the next morning, chatting to a local, finding a cafe, running into same local and listening to the jokes he just told us only 10 minutes earlier, muse about moving away from our suburban house to the country, order a bacon and egg roll each for breaky, forgetting we were no longer anywhere near our local cafe that does the most amazing bacon and egg rolls, HUGE, on scrumtious turkish bread with the most perfect lattes on the side, and receive an odd look, first up, when I screw my nose up and meekly say “um, no thanks” to the “d’ya want tomato or barbeque sauce on those, love?” quesiton and try to hide my disappointment when my “roll” is so far removed from Turkish bread that it is, in fact, a highly processed hamberger “bun”. Not a roll at all. Still, it was also