Twenty questions for long summer road trips
It’s inevitable that the Christmas period involves a minimum four-hour road trip to some obscure relative’s house for the annual obligatory family gathering. In fact, most of the summer period is spent on the road to somewhere: the beach, the bach, the home of great aunt Mildred who you had actually thought was already dead.
And while taking these long, sausage rollsmeared journeys, you start to notice the same things popping up everywhere from Tirau to Timaru. So here are my top 20 burning questions that always occur to me on a Kiwi summer road trip...
Does anyone actually like scroggin? Is it only you who thinks it tastes like licking the underside of a sofa cushion?
Are we there yet? You can’t tell because it feels like you’ve been in this same patch of bush now for at least four years and the rescue helicopter is going to arrive to find your family naked and starving but still huddled around arguing over the GPS’ suggested turnoff.
What is it about being in a black ute that turns someone from perfectly pleasant human into a such a colossal dick it makes Genghis Khan look like Dora the Explorer?
Who in God’s name goes to all these roadside gift shops? Is there a mysterious subsection of our population who day by day are normal humans, only to arrive in roadside towns, see Cathy’s CrazE Crafts and be gripped by the sudden urge for a garden ornament made of spoons?
The same goes for all the antiques stores . . . Who walks past an antiques store while on a peebreak in Petone and thinks, ‘‘I know what would fill that gaping hole in my life – a set of 1920s pottery squirrels!’’
Is there a rule that all roadside cafes have to be named after animals? The Perky Pukeko, The Spotted Dog, The Triple Nipple Lactose Intolerant Horny Hippo . . .
Why have you never realised before now just how annoying your brother’s breathing is?
Who walks past an antique store and thinks, ‘I know what would fill that gaping hole in my life – a set of 1920s pottery squirrels!’
Seriously, he’s like Darth Vader with emphysema. Every time your dad uses the accelerator, your mum grips the seat wildly and sucks in all the oxygen in the car through her teeth. Is now a good time to randomly yell, ‘‘Pedestrian!’’?
Is 1.5 hours the tipping point when the ‘‘hilarious’’ retro playlist you put together switches from being endearingly nostalgic to being akin to a sparkly shoulder-pad clad figure drilling through your skull? The next person to sing Red Red Wine will be impaled on this plastic spoon.
Which is the fastest way to spot a Jafa venturing out: the line ‘‘do you have almond milk?’’ or their expression of perpetual dissatisfaction with everything that makes them look like they’re permanently treading in old cat poop.
Why are all the women in small towns called Trish?
When did you get this dependent on coffee? You’ve only been on the road for an hour and you’re already prepared to tie up a family member and sell their organs to a passing gang member for just one decent flat white.
Speaking of criminal syndicates, are all of these bum-crushingly boring small-town museums actually elaborate money-laundering fronts? It’s a surefire way to hide illegal activities, as even a truckload of passing pensioners would rather stare at care home walls than learn about the history of tree bark.
Where’s Mum’s glasses/phone/keys/spare kettle/emergency mittens/decorative flamingo/ shoes for day drinking /shoes for night drinking/ shoes for if a passing drug dealer takes her hostage in his yacht and there’s a party with both day and night drinking?
Where’s Granny?
What is it about the ‘‘air conditioning v windows down’’ debate that reduces families to tribal warfare faster than politics, religion and who has to sit next to the perpetually farting Uncle Rod?
Who knew you cared this deeply about the radio station? You’re a staunch feminist and really don’t give a stuff about music, but if your dad wants Magic FM you are suddenly prepared to defend to the death your right to listen to Mai FM intone on ‘‘banging them bitches and hoes’’. Really, where’s Granny?
Why is your dad blinking so loudly? Doesn’t he know you’re concentrating on the ode to the hoes? Did you leave the stove on?