We decide to travel in one car to the Christening in Oxford. That includes my husband and I, the three children and Granny and Grandpa. The night before, my husband efficiently prepares the car, re-arranging car seats and hovering up the odd raisin scattered around the car.
The next morning, we pile into the car and sit snugly in our designated seats. Grandpa kindly offers to drive, much happier at the helm in such thick fog. We are barely five minutes from our home when there is a cry from the back row. It is our six-year-old daughter who first declares, “I feel sick.” Grandpa duly pulls over and we re-organise the seating, moving her and her car seat into the middle row with Granny only too happy to take her place in the back alongside the Toddler and his very runny nose.
A few moments later The Toddler is the second to declare, “Sick.” Granny firmly says, “You are NOT going to be sick,” nervously placing her basket across her silk skirt. Not one to risk it, Grandpa pulls over and we all pile out once more to re-arrange ourselves. My husband dutifully climbs into the back row and sits snugly next to Granny. Meanwhile, the children settle back into their usual seating arrangement in the middle, with Grandpa and I in the front.
Off we set again and once safely on the A303, the whimpering begins again. “I feel sick,” cries our daughter. With all this talk of sickness, we were all beginning to feel waves of nausea. The windows are quickly opened so we endure another few miles with a full scale gale whistling round the car blowing newly washed hair in all directions. Granny then announces she thinks we all need a sugar fix. She pulls a Tupperware out and hands round the chocolate Digestives. I suddenly realise I have no wipes and my tissues are rapidly being used up on the Toddler’s nostrils. The children silently munch and drain a few bottles of water.
Suddenly there is another small voice from the middle row. “Loo,” cries the Toddler. Once again, Grandpa, who is about to lose his temper, pulls over. The other two children now decide they too have the urge so out we get and line up on the side of the road. Glancing at their watches Granny and Grandpa try to remain calm and we pick up speed for the final leg of the journey. Finally, we pull into the Church car park and stiffly unravel ourselves from our seats. Smart Oxfordshire parishioners hover round dressed in a lot of tweed and couture. They glance across at the bedraggled Dorset family with windswept hair and creased clothes standing beside three small chocolate-faced children with runny noses. “Next time, we’ll go in two cars,” mutters Grandpa.
