I’ve had an internal monolog running in my head since I was probably 3-4 years old. I know I spent a lot of those first aware years—between 3 and 5—firing questions at my father almost non-stop. Asking him why this, or why that. Questions he always patiently answered. And, despite my best efforts, he always, but always, had an answer for me. Whether any of those answers were scientifically correct was neither here nor there. If I wanted to know why whales had holes on the top of the head, my father had an answer for me.

Our routine got so that he started calling me, Miss Why. He would come home from work, and we would share dinner together—this mostly because at the time I refused to eat all day long till Daddy came home, and I insisted then on eating what he ate. This phase lasted a very long time, throughout the three years we lived in Hong Kong I think. What broke that particular streak? Him having tripe (sheep’s intestines and stomach lining) and onions for dinner, one night, when we were back living in the UK.

Of course, there was no way this stubborn 5 year old was eating tripe.

And so, at roughly the same time I started full time school, I stopped having dinner with my father, and started eating with the other kids, my siblings. And, in doing so, apparently, turned my torrent of non stop thought into firing endless questions at them.

You may ask me why I never spent my day firing questions at my mother and the answer could probably be because, as a small child, I spent a lot of those early years going everywhere with her. And, in doing so, we talked all day long about everything. Our conversations always, without me realising, being her teaching me and, in her own way, answering questions before I even asked them.

That inquisitive internal monolog hasn’t quietened or for one second stopped (other than in deep sleep). I’m still asking questions like, “What do ants do when it rains?”

​These days, without siblings or parents to bombard with questions, I use my writing as an outlet, plus scribbling furiously into a daily journal like my life depended on it. And, in a way, I suppose it does.

One of my all-time favourite sweeties as a child were Bassetts Jelly Babies. And I mean the original flour dusted version, not the more recent Maynards version. As anyone who is a regular reader to this blog might know by now is, most of my favourite things have came to me by way of my family. Jelly Babies are no exception. This particular love was gifted me by my gran, Mary Anne. My dad’s mother.

There are a few things I particularly remember about her with a fondness, and they were:

1. Her love of pig-shaped piggy banks (she had dozens of them).
2. Her proclivity for boiling a kettle on an old WWII paraffin stove she kept way too close to her armchair.
3. Her prized roses.
4. And her love of Bassetts Jelly Babies.

She always had a crumpled bag of them at hand. A bag I was convinced filled up magically overnight, as there always seemed to be an endless supply whenever I visited her after school.

Of course my visits became a ritual. We would sit and chat about the day, I’d make tea for her, and we’d eat a jelly baby, or three, then I would help her in her tiny postage stamp sized garden keeping her roses in check. She would always give me a small bunch to take home for my mother, who adored the smell.

For me, the best part of these after school afternoon visit was, of course, seeing my gran, but also, the jelly babies. And so, long after my Gran had passed, I would buy a quarter pound of Jelly Babies every week to keep my connection to her, and keep those memories of her alive.

Fun Facts: Did you know, Jelly Babies were invented in 1864 by an Austrian immigrant working at Fryers of Lancashire, and were originally marketed as “Unclaimed Babies”. By 1918 they were produced by Bassett’s in Sheffield as “Peace Babies”, to mark the end of World War I. Bassett’s themselves supported the “Peace Babies” name.

Also, more recently, I think it was the 90s? Bassett’s allocated individual names, shapes, colours and flavour to different “babies”: Brilliant (red; strawberry), Bubbles (yellow; lemon), Baby Bonny (pink; raspberry), Boofuls (green; lime), Bigheart (purple; blackcurrant) and Bumper (orange).

This trip was memorable for so many of the wrong reasons. But let’s start at the beginning shall we. Chris, a friend of mine, was keen to go to the Glastonbury festival. in the UK Chris being Chris though roped in another friend, Martin, a musician, to come along with us, as the man component because, you know, two women travelling alone. All of us being short of money and with no advance tickets, decided to drive down from up north in Chris’s bright purple mini van.

We loaded up the van with our limited gear, as none of us had a tent. Talk about utterly unprepared. But all that didn’t really matter. Because, as luck would have it. About 20 miles from the venue the damn van broke down. Which obviously left us in a dilemma. Chris was adamant she was not leaving the van and called up her ex, who was a mechanic, to see if he could come down and pick us up.

At some point while we were hanging around arguing what to do, Martin decided he was going to be a hero and told us to go on to Glastonbury and that he’d wait for Dave and then, head home with him, or drive the van. I don’t know how he did it but Chris agreed. Me? I was along for the ride. So we packed what we could carry between us and decided to hitch.

The first person to stop said he was heading to the festival and could take us, so we hopped in. But, several miles in, with Chris sitting up at the front, we stopped at a traffic light next to a gas station. Suddenly, she got out. The guy started shouting. Me? I bailed as quickly as I could and confused stood on the roadside with Chris yelling at the guy. He then sped off as the lights changed.

Turns out he thought his payment for the lift was to grope Chris. At this point you would think we’d turn around and head back to Martin, but no, Chris was in no mood and checking with people at the gas station learned we could walk the rest of the way. Yeah, sure we could.

We never made it.

Somewhere on this simple route we took a wrong turn and found ourselves lost as evening fell. It was at this point we either walk further, in the dark, or find somewhere to stay. Neither option sounded good. I made the suggestion we cut our losses. We had passed a train station so suggested we head back to it and try catch a train north, and home.

After another walk, and dog tired, we found the station and booked a through ticket from where we were to Crewe Station, were we could catch a connection to either Wigan or Manchester. We opted for Wigan.

Well, we never made it to Wigan. Not straight away. We were awake enough when the train pulled in at Crewe and changing trains and platforms, climbed aboard the Glasgow train stopping at Wigan along the way.

Guess who fell asleep and ended up in Carlisle? Yeah, we did. Getting off at Carlisle, and talking to the station master explaining what had happened, Chris convinced the guy to let us get on the next train heading south, back toward Wigan.

Yes, we made it finally to Wigan where I called up a friend who gallantly came and rescued us.

It was some road trip, just not the one we had planned or wanted. As for Martin? Dave found him, they fixed the van, and they both drove back up north without incident. We never did another road trip together, anywhere, after that. I wonder why?

And you, have you ever done any memorable (good or bad) road trips?