Back on the road and back down to Canberra for a night’s stopover before heading home.
Grumpy and I had been extremely clever, or so we thought, in moving Chippie’s car seat into the middle, separating Monkey Boy and Godzilla. That was one reason, anyway. The other was Monkey Boy’s propensity for car sickness, and to make it easier for whoever wasn’t driving to attend to Chippie in case of need.
And need we did. He was over is lethargy in the car and insisted on spending most of it fighting sleep and crying. He appeared to be happy, and more likely to sleep, if holding a biscuit, then biting bits of it in a semi-conscious state, mushing them up and spitting them out again.
Then, the bit we least expected happened.
“Mu-um” came the cry “He’s touching me!”
What the …? It was definitely not a baby brother touching me complaint, which is usually accompanied by some mirth. Nope, a full on whingy complain. And then Godizlla crying in pain and the “he hurt me!”
There’s a bloody car seat between them. This can’t be happening.
But it can, when there is a teensy gap, just large enough to fit the arm of an eight year old boy, behind the baby seat. There went the next 20 minutes of one reaching through and pinching, poking and otherwise annoying the other, whilst the other either retaliated or, if quick enough, grabbing the hand of the protaganist and squeezing, pulling or otherwise maining.
Not content with the goings on inside the car, we also got the luxury of dealing with people outside of the car, just to make life more interesting. Like the old lady who slowed down to considerably below the roadworkds speed limit – of which there were a few – sped up to 20 kmph below the post roadworks limit of 100, then slammed her brakes on at this considerable speed despite no roadworks or other obvious reason for her doing so.
Or was there … just in front of her, doing the speed limit, was a truck carrying roadwork signs in his back. Two of those signs were speed limit signs, one saying 40 and the other 60. She had slowed down to the limits shown on the signs on the back of a truck.
I did wonder if she had gone into major panick wondering if she was supposed to be doing 40 or 60.
No time to ponder that thought …. “Mu-uuum, he threw a biscuit at me!”