Smashed Pianos ~ Liam Gallagher

DISTANCE

Service stations aren't really my cup of tea. As of yet, in the whole seventeen years I have been alive, I have not found a single service station worthy of comment. They're all the same; piss all over the toilet floors, dicks engraved into the cubicle walls using whatever the perpetrator could find in their bag, the same dusty newsagents that sell out of date prawn cocktail sandwiches and flat lime soda, and don't even get me started on the overpriced sunglasses and lilos. Who even needs a lilo in England?

I'd much rather go to the loo in the comfort of my own home. I don't appreciate the three second panic you have when you fumble for the toilet paper, think there isn't any, inwardly scream and kick yourself, and then realise that there is toilet roll, you just didn't reach far enough, but you've already caught the attention of the person in the cubicle next door, and seeing a hand come beneath the plastic dividing wall to pass you some slightly damp tissue to wipe your arse with, surprisingly puts me on edge. You can't just say "No sorry, I've found some. No bother." You have to take the soggy gift, thank the person, and immediately drop it into the toilet. I hate generous people.

I procrastinate by looking at the garish postcards and grimace, postcards are a nice sentiment if you're in a long distant relationship, or an elderly person who hasn't left their house in eight years. If you're seventeen years old, single and slightly lonely, postcards either seem clingy or creepy.

I told mum I'd be back at the car by two. It's three minutes past and undoubtedly she'll already be panicking and eyeing up the entrance from the steering wheel, looking for a  short and skinny girl, wearing tight black jeans and a hoodie pulled over her mousy hair, fashioning a moody face. Resting bitch face is no laughing matter.

But the prospect of another hour with mum and Ruth (my younger sister who acts like a fifty year old but hasn't even started her period or kissed a boy yet) in a confined space with no clear escape route is horrifying. Mum telling me that this move is 'going to be great' and will 'offer a bright future' and Ruth sucking up to her is all too frequent. This car journey so far (from Nottingham to Manchester but we've stopped in Sheffield) I think I've heard the phrase 'the grass is greener on the other side' at least seventeen times.

Obviously it doesn't effect me as much as Ruth, who is starting at secondary school in September, because I'll be in sixth form. It's not as big a deal for me. I'm used to being the outsider. It'll be no different. Ruth however is surprisingly popular. She's easy to talk to and isn't socially inept, I do envy her social skills actually...

But this time last month I was out celebrating the end of my exams with my few mates in the park north of our estate, getting pissed while we eagerly watched the sun go down and crying when we had to say goodbye. Mum hadn't left dad then.

It's the same old story. Man cheating on woman with his secretary. Except in this particular case the man got his secretary knocked up with twins and then also fucked the said secretary's sister. I never really got on with dad, but not having him around is weird. I'm used to running commentary when watching films and him making cups of tea that taste of dishwasher water. And it's those little things that make a home.

Six minutes past two, I'm shocked she hasn't sent out a search party. Mind you, Ruth is probably boring her to death with her 'interesting' geology facts (excuse me while I shoot myself in the face).

Mum said that by moving to Manchester she could pursue her career in modern art (which in my opinion she could've pursued anywhere else in the world) and we'll be closer to her friends from nurse school. And once I'd gotten accepted into the sixth form, our bags were backed, petrol tank filled, and divorce settlement agreed (quickly with no mess thank God). It all feels very fast, but I'd rather it was fast and efficient rather than dragged out.