So, when I was a kid, my family would go out to eat at least once a month or so. It was a lovely big deal - my mum would get all dressed up, I'd be allowed to wear lipgloss and a little bit of her perfume, and we'd all go out somewhere WAY above my brother's and my heads. Chicken nuggets all the way, yo!
Once we'd finished we'd go to this tiny little ice-cream place in Maitland and grab scoops of something to eat on the way home. I'd always get a fantastically "grown-up" flavour like rum 'n raisin or dark chocolate or old english toffee to show how mature I was (I hate rum 'n raisin).
Then, on the way home, my father - from the passenger seat - would wind down all the windows, zoom open the sunroof, and crank up the stereo on whatever we happened to be driving and just HOWL away to Willie Nelson whalin' on My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.
On repeat. It wasn't a short trip.
How the hell my mother didn't flat out kill him I'll never know. Especially when my brother and I wanted to get in on the action and tried to stand on the centre console to poke our heads out of the sunroof and howl along.
Every time, though, they'd grab us around the waist and let us stand up long enough to feel gloriously rebellious, then haul us back in knowing that by the time we'd get home the sugar high and head-rush would have exhausted us to the point where we'd be half-asleep in the backseat and a goodnight kiss and hug from Mum would have us crashed out about 0.243 nanoseconds after heads had hit pillows.
Thanks, Mum.
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