where the writers are
an earful of light

I’m on the edge of my seat, looking left and right, looking for that elusive turnoff.

“Grandad!” I’m shouting. He ignores me. He ignores the indicator light flashing impotently on and off. The car has missed my turnoff! I’m going to be late.

I tap his shoulder softly. My mom warned me about disturbing Oupa while he’s driving. He swerves and looks at me. Confused.

“Grandad, we have to turn back. We missed the turnoff.”

“Hey? Turn?” He notices the flashing light and turns right with a smile and an earful of light. I groan. That indicator was for our last turn, some thirty minutes ago. This is a disaster!