Of Car Games

Me, on a Bank Holiday roadtrip with my children:

“Can we play car games Mummy?”

“Of course we can. What would you like to play?”

“I Spy.”

“Must you torture me like this?”

“It’s my favourite game in the WORLD!”

“Go on then.”

“I Spy with my little eye, something beginning with… B.”

“Bag.”

“No.”

“Beth.”

“No.”

“Blue sky.”

“That begins with a S.”

“No, it… never mind. Ummmmm…”

“Do you give in?”

“Yes. God, yes. What’s the answer?”

“Plaster!”

“Which begins with B, because…”

“P is almost a B.”

“Of course it is. And where is this plaster, anyway?”

“There’s one at home. In the cupboard.”

“So you can’t actually spy one with your little eye?”

“I could do if I was at home.”

“Fuck my life. Let’s play a different game.”

“The salad game!”

“Um…what now?”

[Twenty minutes of interrogation later…]

“You mean Animal Vegetable Mineral.”

“Yes! The salad game.”

“Obviously. Right, shall I go first?”

“Yes.”

“It’s​ an animal.”

“Cat.”

“No.”

“Dog.”

“No.”

“Shark.”

“No.”

“Millipede.”

“No. You know, you can try and find out clues about the animal rather than just going through every single type of animal.”

“I don’t want to.”

“No. Of course you don’t.”

“African snail!”

“NO!”

[Almost fifteen minutes later…]

“Tell you what. I’ll give you a clue. It’s a person.”

“Me! Jamie! You! Dad!”

“No, none of those people.”

“But those are the only people in the car.”

“Well it isn’t someone in the car.”

“But you said it had to be.”

“No, no I didn’t.”

“You did!”

“I DIDN’T! That was the last game.”

“Well, I don’t know who it is.”

“That’s kind of the point. You have to guess.”

“Is it Jamie?”

“No, still not Jamie.”

[Jamie suddenly pitches in.] “Is it my hairy ball sack?”

“Jamie! No, it isn’t, and no, we don’t need to hear about your hairy ball sack, thanks very much. Right, how about another game?”

“But who was it?”

“God knows. Somewhere in the last torturous forty minutes my brain appears to have let go of all salient facts and information altogether.”

“It was God?”

“AAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHH. Right, how about the limerick game.”

“What’s that?”

“A limerick is a type of poem.”

“That’s too hard for me. Jamie will have to do it for me.”

“Okay, so Jamie, how it works is that I say the first line of the limerick, and then you have to say a line after that, which rhymes with the first line. So, I might say: ‘There was a young lady called Mum.’ And you would say…”

“And she had loads of poo coming out of her really hairy and stinky bum.”

“RIGHT! Enough. Enough car games.”

“But what can we play now?”

“You can play the ‘sitting very quietly and thinking silent thoughts to yourself’ game.”

“That sounds rubbish.”

“Can’t be any worse than the last forty five minutes.”

2 thoughts on “Of Car Games

  1. Yet again- so skin crawlingly similar to my many car journey experiences it’s as if you’ve been hiding in the boot of my car and scrawling down the conversations… forwarded to hubby once more after the success of ‘duvet-gate’ and this was his response: “Car games just make me want to curl up and hide inside an empty duvet cover.”

    So there you go. Thanks for your eloquent blog, Mrs x

    Like

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