There is, bizarrely, nothing I enjoy more in life than a long car journey. My mum now uses it as a bribe to get me to visit our distant friends and relatives with her. In fact I’m fairly unreliable when it comes to visiting family within a half hour radius of home, but those that live 3+ hours away think me an incredibly doting great/grand/second niece/cousin/whatever. They really don’t need to know the thought process behind it.
I think it’s something about the repetitive bouncing motion, along with the gentle whooshing sound of cars going by, which I find inexplicably soothing. More fundamentally though, I think it’s the long stretches of uninterrupted time that car journeys offer, in which to read.
My sister gets car sick, so obviously she hates the car (and me, in it). She takes it personally. She thinks I’m gloating about the fact that I have so much time to indulge in our favourite activity while she just has to sit there trying to suppress her nausea. Deep down she understands though, I’m sure she does, and if roles were reversed she’d without doubt be burying her head in a book while I acquired the greenish tinge.
Annie, 21, always available for round trips to Newcastle and Edinburgh.