The road too travelled

My car has just turned one hundred and thirty thousand miles used.  I could have gone more than five times round the world for this.  Instead it’s one trip to Scotland (say a thousand miles), one trip to France (say another thousand) and that still leaves me enough for five circuits.  I daren’t calculate school runs and journeys to work in case I’m tempted to sell it, buy a backpack and travel for real.

I do try to use it less.

Daniel:    Can you pick me up from the station?

Me:         Why?

Daniel:    It’s raining, it’s dark, I’ve got a heavy bag and I’m tired

Me:         Try going to bed earlier

Phone goes dead.  Wonder if I should call back with a Don’t-You-Dare, like my friend does.  Don’t, as think I might lose.

We live up a steep hill, a mile from the station.  We’re on an unlit, wooded lane, too narrow for cars to pass and populated by maniacs whose vehicles are big enough for a football team, only use top gear and despise brakes. 

Phone rings again.

Daniel:    I didn’t hang up on you, I dropped my phone and the battery fell out

Me:         That’s okay

Daniel:    Will you pick me up then?

Me:         ‘kay

I pick up my car keys

Me:         Just going to get Dan

Jamie:    How come he gets a lift but you made me cycle to the supermarket?

Me:         He’s got a heavy bag

Jamie:    So did I

Sent Jamie out earlier to get rolls for next week’s lunchboxes.  Realised his backpack could also fit a chicken, carrots and milk, so he picked those up too.  You needed the exercise I think, but instead try good parent line.

Me:         You’re just a superstar

Jamie:    Well you can come too on your bike next time

Me:         ‘kay

Still, my husband has walked more miles in the past year than he’s driven.  Does that count?