The Holiday – Part 5

Torn between healthy respect for the still stationary, road-hogging sheep and the knowledge that my father required me to grovel for at least a few minutes (though more likely the entire holiday) – I side-shuffled and shimmied out of the drivers door.



I needn’t have worried. The sheep simply did not care. For the second time that day, I found myself envying them.


My mother gave me that look. The special look she saved for me when I had clearly done something wrong. The look she used to give when I was a child – as I passed her in the doorway after she had bellowed herself hoarse, shouting over scheme rooftops for me to come home. She – large adult with malevolence in her eyes – Me – small transgressor with stubborn determination not to admit I might have done something wrong… Back then I would duck, just as I imagined her hand coming up to slap me – and she would miss and be even more infuriated that I had ducked. Oh happy days.


I was too old now to duck, I reflected. Anyway I was standing at the driver side – she wouldn’t be able to reach.
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