I’m pinned back in my seat as Dad accelerates. ‘Where are we going?’ I say. ‘The shops are the other way. What about the rolls for lunch?’ ‘Making . . . a slight . . . change of plans,’ mutters Dad between gear changes. Oh no. Not again. I should have stayed at home. We’re swerving in and out of traffic like they do in the movies; I just grip the doorhandle and wait to see what happens next. It’s not going to be boring, at least I know that much. My dad does stuff like this all the time. Well, not the stunt-car driving, I mean the sudden change of plans. Usually his craziness is more weird than dangerous – like the time Mum brought takeaway noodles home and Dad threw the whole lot straight into the bin. Or the time my class was going to the zoo. Dad took one look at the bus driver and insisted on driving me himself. I’ll never live that one down.
