by Jon Parker

Created on: December 15, 2006   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

"Come on kids. We're going for a nice stroll to make the most of the countryside in the vicinity."

Fantastic, I thought. Another joyous, self-motivating four hours trekking through mud, horse faeces and the ominous presence of cheery newly retired ramblers who care only for how "the weather should brighten up later". God, I hate it.

And I haven't even got to the company I'll be in. A wretched, wailing toddler and a spoilt cuckoo baby of an eight-year-old. Then there's Dad: the full of mediocrity Mr Repetitive who despises enthusiasm and expression. Mum? She thinks the walk will do us "the power of good". Her crushing, spiteful ideas that she refers to as "family togetherness schemes" certainly pull you by the feet.

Following infinite precipitation of endless vocabulary, we all sink into surrender mode. We have been diminished by "you'll enjoy once we've got going"s, verbally slaughtered by "the fresh air will be good for you"s and ironically depressed by optimism. Death by "the great outdoors" commences spontaneously. Mum's cheek muscles are in overload as the rest of us discover that smiles are less tiresome when inverted.

We tread forebodingly off the doorstep, which our minds appear to be regarding as a beam protruding from a Caribbean sea vessel, inhabited by robbers and adventurers centuries ago. A reciprocating image of tedium at its peak is suspended in my skull, before it crashes down to my sinuses, as I realise that the capacity of this picture is filled with realism, approaching at a startling velocity.

The door is violently closed by the cuckoo baby I mentioned earlier. "Now who's got the key?" enquires our charming mother: good intention, but as exciting as viewing moisture evaporate from a coat of emulsion. If synchronised speech were an Olympic sport, we would have connected foot to rear pelvis with bruising pressure. Our chorus of "not me"s caused mum's enthusiasm to miss a gear, but in less than a minute amount of what a standard clock measures, she yanked the clutch and retaliated with the daunting prospect of: "its okay, Aunt Jill's coming over later and she has a spare key. All it means is we'll just have to walk for a couple more hours than we were going to."

At that instant, being burnt alive whilst rats consumed my torso seemed a more rewarding experience than the one I was presently in. And we had not even departed our garden path

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