IN FOUR HUNDRED YARDS, TURN RIGHT.
“Oo, nonsense! Not that way. Go up Nover’s Hill. That’s Mrs Rathbone’s house. She just died of oldtimers. BUS! This car needs a good clean… Turn left, I mean right. Oo, you’ve missed it! We’ll be late. VAN!”
Unfortunately, there’s no turning off SatNan.
Viv Burgess is not a back seat driver herself, but is usually ranting at her own satnav.
She cleared her throat, he emitted a small cough, and both focused their eyes anywhere but on the ham they were each having trouble chewing.
It rested on a platter, unnaturally shiny: the kind of shiny borne not of glaze, but an aged cook neglecting to remove the plastic wrap.
Jennifer Hrovat was inspired to get back into writing when she won some free socks in a Haiku contest last year. When not trying to score accessories through the written word, she works as a counselor and spends her free time running, reading murder mysteries, and making a giant tasty mess of her kitchen.