Whenever I go home to Tasmania, I seem to regress moody adolescent-hood. Seriously. I start living on iced coffees from the servo and being rude to my parents while relying heavily on their car for fulfilment of my social life.
It’s not my fault I have to use their ride, having typically flown in from Sydney whenever I’m down here. But when mum asks if I can drop off some stuff at the post office on my way out, I find myself getting all shirty with her for no apparent reason, other than the fact that I never asked to be born. I’m trying to work on it but it’s not easy, especially when the folks insist on making me toast soldiers for breakfast.
Anyway, I’ve decided to prove once and for all that I’m a grown up by taking their station wagon in its annual car service. Hobart dwellers, where’s the best place to get this done? I’ll be paying, of course, so maybe keep your suggestions on the cheap side.
Hmm. Maybe I’m not as much of a grown up as I’d like to believe I am. My parents would never err on the cheap side when it comes to things like this. But then, why must I always compare myself to them? After all, they may be an example of adulthood, but they’re hardly the definition of it. God knows what that is, other than an unhelpful social construct.
Who am I kidding? I actually have plenty of money to pay for my parents’ car service, plus have someone see to their car air conditioning. Hobart winters are no place to have your temperature control on the blink, and what kind of a son would I be if I let that happen?
My parents are perfectly capable of sorting all this stuff themselves, so I hope they’re not offended. But by insisting on taking care of them, I’m just giving them a taste of their own medicine.