There’s something inherently bittersweet about having your brother pack up his life and move to another state. On one hand, he’s seventeen million miles away (ok, ok, I may have exaggerated that slightly. Everyone knows Queensland is only sixteen point two five million miles away…), and I
can’t shove my dog off for free babysitting whenever I’m travelling for work don’t get to drop in and hang out with him whenever I want. On the other hand, any time we do hang out, it’s basically a mini holiday. #win
Last time, we drove. Having learned our lesson that nobody needs that much family time cramped up in Dad’s Forrester, this time, it was nothing but the swift, speedy service of a 747 for our latest jaunt. I even gave up my entire empty row to sit next to Mama and Papa, because I’m just that selfless, folks. #DaughterOfTheYear
While my brother may have moved to inland, sleepy Ipswich (seriously, who moves to Queensland and isn’t even near the beach, I literally have no words…), we quickly demanded sunshine and sand and ice cream – barrelling up the coast to Maroochydore in record time.
Most people avoid family holidays like the plague. We actively encourage them – even though we all know exactly what we’re getting in to, how many Dad jokes we’re likely to hear, and how many bottles of bubbles Mum will polish off. For all our nonsense, my family are good people.