You know how men are supposedly better than women at a lot of things? For example, driving. Well, as it turns out, that myth is utterly false. To prove that it's all bullshit, may I present to you my father, currently spewing out expletive after expletives as he struggles to find fourth gear. 

My father thought it would be a genius idea for us to 'bond' while also making our way up to my great-grandfather's estate in Scotland. I was all for it because I hardly ever get one on one time with him but if I'd know just how much trouble it would end up being, I think I would have stuck with Charlotte and taken that extra from Edinburgh. Admittedly, I'd be stuck on a small aircraft with most of my family but that's a small price to pay if the alternative was this.

"Oh, for fuck sakes, what the fuck is wrong with you, you fucking piece of fucking shit?" Dad yells at the gearbox of the car. He puts the indicator on and pulls off the road, coming to a stop on a grass verge. I stifle my laughter as he gets out of the car and starts to pace, his hands pulling at his hair as he shouts out yet another swear word. "Fuck!"

Yeah, this is the man that I bought a Dad of the Year award for when I was seven years old. Honestly, it still surprises me that people have to ask where I get my wondrous vocabulary from. When you're a mixture of Isaac Fletcher and Alyssa Campbell, the answer is pretty obvious. To be fair, I'm pretty tame compared to how I could have ended up. 

While Dad is outside the car, kicking stones and mumbling to himself, I pull out the North Coast 500 map and try to work out where we are. North Coast 500 is Scotland's answer to Route 66 and begins and ends in Inverness. It covers 500 miles, hence the name, and lets you take in the most beautiful scenery in the country. It's rugged and harsh but captivating and breathtaking. Simply looking out the window at the view right now made my heart skip a beat. 

Tracing my finger along the map, I figure out where we are and how far we are from our destination. We were driving from Inverness, across the country towards Applecross, not far from the Isle of Skye, but somehow, Dad had driven us slightly off course. At a place called Garve, he turned off for a road that was not part of our travel plan and to our left was a huge mountain called Sgurr Mor. While I have no idea how to pronounce that, I don't care because it's hellishly intimidating and utterly beautiful. 

While Dad is still trying to calm himself down, I jump across the centre console of the car and place myself in the driving seat, adjusting the seat and mirrors so that they were better suited to me. When I was finally comfortable, I turn the key in the ignition and put the car into first gear. Slowly taking my left foot off the clutch and applying pressure to the accelerator, I move the car forward steadily until I come to a stop near where my father is now frozen. 

Rolling down the passenger side window, I dip my head so that I can see my father's face. "Are we going or are you quite content with us becoming prey to a serial murderer? Out here, they could easily hide the body and no one will ever find us."

Dad's mouth opened, and then promptly closed. He did this a few times before he finally sighed, opened the car door and slid into the passenger side, mumbling something under his breath. Indicating that we were rejoining the non-existent flow of traffic, I pull back onto the main road and drive a short distance until I see a sign for a golf course. Seeing that they have a café and a gift store connected to the facility, I turn because my stomach has started to growl and I'm really hungry. 

Dad and I caught a London-Edinburgh flight earlier this afternoon. I'd been at the gallery until just shortly after lunch but I never did go out to eat. Since Ros and Sam had finally agreed all the finer details about the exhibition, I'd been hard at it creating the programme, collating all the information required and e-mailing companies to confirm the catering, the drinks and the decor for the exhibition's opening night. Now, however, my hunger pangs were creeping up on me and the monster needed feeding.

Entering the café, I lead Dad to the table near the back where there'd be great views of the golf course. Sliding along the seat, I snuggle up to the window and take in the scenery. It never failed to amaze me how different it was here compared to back home. If you went this far away from a city, you'd be sweltering in the heat and surrounded by discoloured grass due to drought. Ok, that may not necessarily be true because if you weren't about an hour out of Sydney, you'd be in the suburbs but you get what I mean. 

"Good afternoon, lassie," a woman with a thick heavy accent smiled at me. "What can I get you?"

It was hard to decipher her words because her accent was a mix of Shrek and that Scottish character from The Simpsons, but I smiled nonetheless and politely asked for a toasted sandwich and a glass of iced water. Dad ordered the same, substituting his drink for a coke, instead.

"So, what's the plan for when we get to your granddad's place?" I asked, making small talk while waiting for our order to arrive. "Everyone else is getting in tomorrow afternoon, so I'm assuming that you've made plans for us for tomorrow."

"Yeah, course," Dad lies. I know he's lying because he's displaying his signature tell- he's fiddling with that imaginary ring he wears on his right hand ring finger. It's been a tick of his for years; he'll run his fingers over the skin on his right hand, almost like he was twisting a ring, all the while biting down on his lip. I smirk at him, letting him know that I wasn't buying his bullshit. "I'll have something planned for tomorrow, don't you worry. Who taught you to drive?"

From the tone of his voice, Dad was half curious as to my answer but also half pissed that it hadn't been him to teach me. "Alice taught me," I admit. "She used to let me drive home from school."

"School?" He asks. He frowns but then realises something and nods to himself. "Right because she taught at the school where you went. Well, want to take a guess who taught Alice to drive?"

"I don't need to guess," I say. The waitress returns to the table and serves the orders, giving us a smile before she goes back to the counter and brings our drinks. When she leaves, I wait for Dad to bite into his grilled sandwich before I continue. "I already know who taught Alice. It was Gramps."

Dad chokes. "Gramps?" He fumes. Setting down his toastie, he takes a long sip of his coke and gulps. "I'll have you know that I was the one who taught her to drive."

"You went out in the car with her four times before you flew back here," I remind him. I'm not that much younger than my aunts and I vividly remember Dad coming to Australia over Christmas a few years ago. He took both May and Alice out in the car to see if they were any good but after the first time with May, she refused to get in a car with Dad again. Alice persevered for the whole two weeks but was glad when Dad left for London. "How come you don't know how to drive a manual car?"

"After I got my license, I stuck to automatics," he answers casually. "Not that I drive much nowadays. How's working for Sam going?"

"Better today than it was last week," I admit. Dad hadn't been keen on me working for Sam; he frowned when I first told him about my plans to get some work experience and while he'd been supportive of me going to work with Charlotte and Michael, for some reason he wasn't a fan of me spending hours on end at the art gallery. "At least Sam managed to get Ros to back the hell off. Oh, and I'm now earning twelve pounds an hour and I'm no longer called a personal assistant. I'm an executive assistant. I haven't broken that last bit to Sam yet, so keep it under wraps, yeah?"

Dad laughed and gave me a proud father look. "That's my girl. Just make sure he doesn't take advantage, alright?"

Nodding, I went back to eating my sandwich, devouring it quickly so that we'd have time to look around the gift shop. After Dad settled the bill, I led us into the shop, picking up a few items for Dad to see. He laughed when I wore a tartan hat and promptly pulled on a version himself. Taking out his phone, he pulled up the front facing camera and angled it towards us, pulled a funny face and snapped a photograph of us together. After, he admired the photo, clicked on a few settings and then waved his phone in front of me. 

"Really, Dad?" I shake my head at him. "You set it as your screensaver?"

"Why not?" He shrugged. "I think we look great."

"I think I look great. You just look like an idiot. You should crop yourself out of it," I tell him as a matter of fact. Placing my tartan hat back on the stand, I reach my hand out to pick up a tiny white baby hat, the name Alba stitched on it in dark blue writing. Holding it up to Dad, I say, "We should get this for the baby. What do you think?"

Dad agreed and took it from me, holding it while I continued to look around. After ten minutes of walking around the stands, we went to the counter and placed every item I'd picked up in front of the cashier. The poor boy, roughly my age, stared at us with wide eyes but said nothing. He scanned the bar code of each item and placed them in a paper bag, sliding it over to me as Dad paid by debit card. 

Walking back to the car, Dad took the keys and insisted that he was going to drive, telling me that he was more than capable of finding second gear. I mumbled that it was finding fourth gear that was the problem, but I think Dad must have heard me if the scowl he gave me was any indication. 

When we climbed into the car, Dad threw the paper bag into my lap and pulled out the same tartan hat he'd worn earlier. He placed it on his head, skewed a little, and grinned at me, motioning at me to do the same. Once my hat was on, Dad turned the key in the ignition and turned the audio on in the car. To my surprise, the first song to blare out of the radio was a well-known song, one that was quintessentially Scottish and fitted this occasion perfectly. 

"This is so cheesy, Dad," I tell him, cringing on the outside. Inside, I was mentally already preparing myself to belt out the lyrics. 

Except, Dad got there first.

"When I wake up, well I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next you!"

"When I go out, yeah I know I'm gonna be, I'm gonna be the man who goes along with you!" I sang. We alternated the next few lines before singing the chorus in harmony. 

This drive was going to be fun!

https://youtu.be/tM0sTNtWDiI

I love this song! It's so iconic!

The North Coast 500 is an actual thing and it's what I'm planning to do this summer. That may sound really stupid but I'm one of those weirdos who refuses to go on holiday abroad when there are so many things in the UK that I've yet to see. So, I'm going to check off the Scottish Highlands next.

Anyway, here are a few questions:

1. Did you like this update?

2. Can you imagine what Martha and Isaac looked like in those tartan hats?

3. So, most of you think that the baby is going to be a boy- is this because of the 'penis' comment from the En France chapter? 

4. If that's not the reason you think the baby will be a boy, what is the real reason?

5. If you think it's a girl, why?

Until tomorrow!

Sarah xx