“We have to leave the house at 8:00am,” I said in my Serious Voice so that Husband would know I was serious.
“Absolutely,” agreed Andrew.
“When I say 8:00am, I don’t secretly mean 8:30am. We have to reach Blenheim by 9:00 at the latest. And we are notoriously flaky.”
“True. But 8:00 should get us there in PLENTY of time.”
But despite getting up at argh o’clock on Saturday morning to prepare snacks, coffee to go, clean out the fridge, sort the rubbish, put out the compost, feed the dog, pack the car and straighten my hair, we still tore out of the driveway shortly after 8:15.
“Ok, 45 minutes to Blenheim – that’s manageable,” I said as we ripped up the road.
“Where did you put your wheelie bag?” asked Husband, as if I were smuggling it up my anus.
“What do you mean, where did I- I didn’t put it- you- I told you it was in the bedroom-”
“I thought you put it in the car!” roared Husband, doing a handbrake turn.
“Of course I didn’t put it in the car – baggage handling is YOUR job! Aw- we’re so late- I SAID we had to be-”
“Well, I was ready at 8:00!”
“Well, so was I!”
“Well, you didn’t look like it!”
“Well, neither did you!”
Husband pulled up outside our gate in a hail of gravel, exiting the car before it came to a stop. He hurdled the gate and sprinted down the drive.
I didn’t know Husband had those kind of moves.
It was pretty sexy.
On the road again, “Well done for remembering the bag, I suppose,” I muttered.
“Sorry I was a bit sharp back there,” muttered back Husband.
As we skidded around a bend, my wheelie bag tumbled off the box upon which it was – ‘wedged’ is not the right word for it, implying as it does a measure of stability – we’ll go for ‘precariously balanced’ in the boot. Jed’s response to this stimulus was to leap out of its way, but he rather over compensated and SHOT STRAIGHT OUT THE BACK WINDOW OF THE CAR.