Back seat bickering

Day 22: 'write a poem in which two things have a fight. Two very unlikely things, if you can manage it. Like, maybe a comb and a spatula. Or a daffodil and a bag of potato chips. Or perhaps your two things could be linked somehow – like a rock and a hard place – and be utterly sick of being so joined. The possibilities are endless!'

I'm devoid of surrealist imagination this morning,  but I do have strong memories of long car journeys when our children were small. 

Each journey would start well enough

With cassette tapes of jolly children's songs

To sing along to; both sides on constant repeat. 

We'd turn to games of 'I spy', 'First one to spot', 

Their favourite: 'I'm thinking of an animal'.

We'd talk about what we wanted to do

Once we arrived in Cornwall, 

Where there were cousins to play with, 

Sandy beaches, animal sanctuaries,

The excitement of Flambards fairground. 

But there were too many miles from London. 

It would begin with a tussle,  

Both wanting the same toy, book, cushion, 

Easy enough to ignore from the front seats.

But all too quickly, it would escalate.

Muffled thumps and protests became shrieks, 

Then the dreaded 'Mum, he's on my side. Tell him.'

As the non-driving passenger, and default referee, 

I'd start with reasonable requests,

Try to encourage the benefits of sharing,

To shame them into good behaviour, 

Move on to dire warnings, of treats to be withheld. 

If peace was not restored - it never was -

We'd pull in at the next motorway services

Crossly place their pillows in-between them

As a line of demarcation, instruct each child 

Not to touch the other's pillow, and mouth a silent prayer.

It was slightly better when we moved to Bristol. 

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