Just Annoying!

Are we there yet?

Copycat from Ballarat

Wish you weren't here

Imaginary friends

In the shower with Andy

Would you rather?

Murder, bloody murder!

The last Jaffa

Swinging on the clothesline

 

ad?'
‘Yes?'
‘Are we there yet?'

‘No.'

‘Now?'

‘No.'

‘Now?'

‘For goodness sakes!' growls Dad. ‘Will you stop it!'

Alright,' I say. ‘Don't get your knickers in a knot.'

We've been in the car for two days now. Mum and Dad are at breaking point.

Don't get me wrong. I don't
want
them to get mad at me—it just happens.

Like it or not, when you go on a long drive there are times when you just have to stop.

And my parents do not like it.

But what's the alternative?

Do they want me to starve to death? To wet my pants? To be sick all over the back seat?

I think any of these would be a lot more annoying and inconvenient than the few stops it takes to prevent them. I'm actually doing them a favour.

Mum and Dad should save their energy for really annoying things. Like the fly that has been buzzing around in the car for the last half hour. It's driving me mental. I'm going to do us all a big favour. I'm going to get rid of it.

I wind the window down. The fly jumps away.

It's hiding, just waiting for me to wind the window back up again.

I have to lure it out.

I start doing my best fly-call.

‘Bzzzz! Bzzzzzzz! Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz!'

Still no fly. Have to do it louder.

BZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZ! BZZZZZZZZZ!'

‘Andy!' yells Dad. ‘I can't concentrate with you making that stupid noise. Do you want us to have an accident? Do you want us all to be killed?'

I hate it when Dad asks dumb questions like that. What does he expect me to say? ‘Yes, Dad, I want us to have an accident. I want us all to be killed.'

But I don't say that. It might cause Dad to have an accident. We might all be killed.

‘Alright, Dad,' I say instead. ‘Don't get your knickers in a knot.'

‘And stop telling me not to get my knickers in a knot!' he explodes.

‘Okay,' I say. ‘Don't get your trousers in a twist.'

Dad hunches over the steering wheel. His knuckles whiten. Tiny drops of perspiration appear on the back of his neck.

He knows he's been outsmarted once again. It must be frustrating for him having a son as clever as me. It must be hard knowing that he can never win.

The fly lazily cruises in front of my eyes. It's asking for trouble. Well, it's come to the right man.

I once saw a movie where the door of an aeroplane opened mid-air and everybody was sucked out by the vacuum it created. I don't need a vacuum quite that powerful, but maybe if I open and close the door I'll be able to create one strong enough to suck the fly out.

I squeeze the door handle as carefully and slowly as I can so that it doesn't make any noise. I swing it open, then shut.

Open, shut.

Open, shut.

‘What do you think you're doing?' screams Dad.

‘I'm creating a vacuum,' I say.

‘What?'

‘A vacuum! I'm trying to get a fly out of the car.'

‘Shut the door! And keep it shut!' shouts Dad. ‘I'm warning you. If you don't behave yourself, I'll stop the car and you can get out and walk. Do you understand?'

‘But, Dad . . .' I say.

‘No buts! Do you understand?'

‘Yes, Dad.'

Dad's knuckles are really white now. He's gripping the steering wheel so hard that his bones are practically breaking through his skin.

I hear a buzz. It's coming from behind me. The vacuum didn't work. I turn around but I can't see the fly. Hang on—the noise is coming from outside.

I undo my seatbelt and kneel up on the seat to get a better view.

There's this crazy-looking guy riding an old black Harley. He's got a long red beard, a black bowl-shaped helmet and a pair of old-fashioned plastic riding goggles. They make him look like a fly. And his motorbike sounds like one. Only much louder.

Suddenly the fly shoots across the window.

Showdown time!

I try to cup it in my left hand and hook it out of the window.

That's my plan, anyway.

But the fly has other ideas. It skates across the window to the far corner. And then back again. I'm chasing the fly back and forth across the window when I notice that the bikie is making hand signals.