Road Trip
Gather round the fire and share stories of epic travels. Remember this is about the voyage, not what happened when you got there. Any of that shite and you're going in the fire.
Suggestion by Dr Preference
( , Thu 14 Jul 2011, 22:27)
Gather round the fire and share stories of epic travels. Remember this is about the voyage, not what happened when you got there. Any of that shite and you're going in the fire.
Suggestion by Dr Preference
( , Thu 14 Jul 2011, 22:27)
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It's a long way to Tip...tree.
My Nan & Grandad used to love taking little me and my littler brother off to Tiptree to pick strawberries, on the basis that it must be where the best strawberries come from because it's where they make the jam. Old people logic, it's not worth questionning. So one sunny Saturday, off we go, me and my brother playing in the back, no seat belts or car seats required for kids in the back seat at the time. Grandad concentrating on driving and listening to Desert Island Discs or The Archers or somesuch, and Nan dozing in the passsanger seat. And the picnic bag sat on the floor in front of me, behind the drivers seat. The journey was uneventful, apart from a couple of 'You boys are quiet' comments from my granddad. And yes, we were quiet. We had access to the picnic bag...
Tiptree arrived, the blankets and chairs were fetched from the boot by granddad, while Nan opened the back doors of the car to start sorting through the goodies so she could start making the sandwiches (she always made them when we arrived, not before we left home), the bread came out, the cheese, the ham, the lettuce, as I watched, quietly, not feeling too well.
'Oh, I think i forgot to pack the butter', she said, 'Oh well, it will be OK'. And she went to pick me out of the seat, just as I decided to vomit a greasy, yellow, rancid dairy filled projectile all over her, the door, the seat, the floor and myself.
She hadn't forgotten to pack the butter.
I'd eaten it.
( , Fri 15 Jul 2011, 10:21, 4 replies)
My Nan & Grandad used to love taking little me and my littler brother off to Tiptree to pick strawberries, on the basis that it must be where the best strawberries come from because it's where they make the jam. Old people logic, it's not worth questionning. So one sunny Saturday, off we go, me and my brother playing in the back, no seat belts or car seats required for kids in the back seat at the time. Grandad concentrating on driving and listening to Desert Island Discs or The Archers or somesuch, and Nan dozing in the passsanger seat. And the picnic bag sat on the floor in front of me, behind the drivers seat. The journey was uneventful, apart from a couple of 'You boys are quiet' comments from my granddad. And yes, we were quiet. We had access to the picnic bag...
Tiptree arrived, the blankets and chairs were fetched from the boot by granddad, while Nan opened the back doors of the car to start sorting through the goodies so she could start making the sandwiches (she always made them when we arrived, not before we left home), the bread came out, the cheese, the ham, the lettuce, as I watched, quietly, not feeling too well.
'Oh, I think i forgot to pack the butter', she said, 'Oh well, it will be OK'. And she went to pick me out of the seat, just as I decided to vomit a greasy, yellow, rancid dairy filled projectile all over her, the door, the seat, the floor and myself.
She hadn't forgotten to pack the butter.
I'd eaten it.
( , Fri 15 Jul 2011, 10:21, 4 replies)
This story may well violate the rules,
as the payoff is at the destination, but I don't care!
( , Fri 15 Jul 2011, 10:43, closed)
as the payoff is at the destination, but I don't care!
( , Fri 15 Jul 2011, 10:43, closed)
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