Monday, August 09, 2004

Let me tell you about a car journey

Nobody asks me about what I did over my weekend. I feel somewhat cheated. Never mind, I can store it up for a future weekend.

I miss out on a while slice of social smalltalk by not driving. Personally, I don't think I miss much. Someone happily tells me that it took them three hours down the A-something-or-other to get to somewhere-or-other. Really? Three hours? That's er ... interesting (a whopping great white lie there, but it would be impolite to shriek into their ear that it was the most boring thing I had heard and would they please just SHUT UP FOR GOD'S SAKE!)

I find it impossible in these circumstances to gauge appropriate responses. Three hours? Is that good? The other thing is that this is invariably a subject which makes men smirk contentedly at themselves.

"So of course with the good weather everyone was trying to get to [insert random town name here] and the roads were packed," smirk, "and we had the dog in there as well," good humoured roll-of-eyes, "we had to put it down in the end and the girlfriend's in hospital for heatstroke, took us thirteen days to get to [insert random town name here]."
"Really? Thirteen days? Did you take the A84920?"
"No, the M489."
"Ah!" (knowingly)

It must be a heterosexual thing. I just don't get it. Of course I have no sense of direction either. Or common sense. When I saw the flight details for Vietnam I couldn't figure out if it was a thirteen or thirty-seven hours flight. I suppose it depends if you take the motorway or not.

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