The Things I Miss.

Long car journeys with my parents when I was a kid. I'd listen to audio books on my brother's personal tape player and warm my face in the sun as we sat in traffic along with everyone else who was going on their summer holidays on the east coast. We'd stop at the same service station every year and my parents would pull out the packed lunches and a flask of coffee. As they opened the thermos the whole car would fill with the smell of warm, slightly stewed coffee. The windscreen would steam up in two spots; just above where the cups sat perched on the dashboard. I'd go into the services with my dad and convince him to buy me an ice cream, a treat he pretended he would deny me every year but one which he always caved on.

Lazy Sundays in Lanacster. Sleep in late. Eat a breakfast of freshly baked croissants and freshly squeezed orange juice. We'd potter around the house, often I'd do a bit of gardening. Then we'd go to The Gregson for a phenomenally large lunch and stroll awkwardly into town - too full to rush - to rent a movie, or mooch around the shops before heading home for yet another meal.

Getting in my car and just driving. Anywhere, nowhere. Just because I needed to get out, be alone, sing at the top of my voice and have nobody smirk as I failed to hit the right notes.


Everything. Nothing. You. Me. Us. Then.