The blurring dazzle of red and white lights distorting my vision; the screeching

sound of wheels tearing up layers of tarmac as they move from left to right on the
road; the putrid stench of bile rising from my throat: Sunday morning. Our fingers,
bruised and red, prying onto the handles swinging either side from the ceiling as
the crazed woman in the front throws her prized mini into the sixth gear, tearing
through the orderly traffic in her usual disorderly fashion whilst we give
apologetic looks to those we force off the road.

Every Sunday; our covers thrown back, a dishevelled lettuce sandwich placed just
off-centre on a china plate in front of us, a neatly ironed collar smoothed down,
the hasty bundling of Adam and I into the back seat of the mini, followed by the
perilous journey to church. This particular morning, after being dragged from my
beloved bed, force-fed a revolting lettuce sandwich, and had my collar smoothed
several hundred times by four different aunts and uncles, her driving is seemingly
worse than ever. We’ve only passed the second junction and already several honking
horns and bickering figures are shouting into our red-faced grandmother’s half-open
window, no dismay reflecting in her red-rimmed frames as she rolls up the window
and overtakes whoever is unfortunately in her line of vision at some ungodly speed.
We’ve gotten used to her deranged driving by now; Adam and I often hold one of
those reusable Tesco bags out for one another to lurch into; as gross as it seems,
we have learnt to think practically rather than self consciously.

With the sign for our junction beginning to appear on the roadside, I lean forward
and brace myself against the empty seat in front, the car jerking suddenly to the
left across several lanes of traffic until she forces us in front of other
patiently waiting drivers onto the slip road. I suck in a sharp intake of breath as
she turns around and throws me back into my seat with one hand and glares, her
other blindly turning the wheel the wrong way around the roundabout. My eyes widen
as I point my shaking fingers at the oncoming drivers swerving frantically in all
directions - but she smiles and calmly rectifies her mistake and pulls off into the
third exit, swinging the car into the church carpark.

Tilting my spinning head back against the headrest, I attempt to slow my breathing
having finally reached the journey's end. Without much thought, one of my shaking
hands seems to reach out to open the car door, my other hurriedly pulling at the
seatbelt to escape the cage I've been trapped in throughout this weekly frightening
ordeal.