"Why don't you fly up? It would be cheaper, quicker and easier."
"But I want to go on the train," I reply.
Mum is a destination woman, while dead is a never-want-to-leave-home man. I don't know what I am yet, but I like trains, even if they're old, uncomfortable and stuffy.
"But plane is better. Do you know how long it takes to get to Queensland?"
I don't have to answer, this is mum of course. It's rhetorical. I'm not sure if she's trying to talk me out of it or if she thinks she's being helpful, but this is her thing, latching onto something I say and gnawing at it. I once said I wanted to move out of home. She countered with a "you cannot afford it". I tell her I can and then she goes into detail where the money will be spent. I don't move out.
Dad joins into the conversation. "I'd say about ten hours." He doesn't look fazed.
"Yeah," mum looks at dad like he's the crazy one.
I shake my head. "It's either train or I drive."
"That'll take just as long."
Shouldn't I be having this conversation with my friends? They will be the ones suffering with me, not Mother.
Dad flicks through the television. MH17 is on the news again. I point at the screen. "That's why I don't want to fly."
Mum goes quiet.
Scores this round:
April - 1
Mother - 0