So we decided to drive the 20 minutes to Maccas because I couldn't be bothered cooking and I was feeling tired enough to want to kill time in an amusing way before kids' bed time. We mentioned it to Max, who was immediately ecstatic and went to hop straight in the car. Then I told Bright Eyes, who of course, didn't want to go.

"I am not a Bomaderry boy. I am a Kangaroo Valley boy. I will not go. I cannot go. It is no time for going. It is time for staying... etc etc"

We set off on the mountain road. All the way up Bright Eyes was protesting loudly. "I am not going. It is not for me. I don't want to go..." Max, meanwhile, was relishing the prospect of hot chips.

About ten minutes up the road, the traffic literally stopped. We couldn't see what the problem was, but we did see a police car, and nothing moved for about 3 minutes. Meanwhile the noise from the backseat continued unabated.

"Let's turn around and go home," I said to AP, who agreed, so we did an about-face and headed back down the road to Kangaroo Valley.

Immediately, Bright Eyes' protests stopped. Unfortunately, Max's started up.

"Macdonalds! I have to go to Macdonalds! I want chips! Mum, Macdonalds! Mum, Macdonalds!"

"It's very disappointing, I know," I said, soothingly. "But the traffic was in a jam, and it would take too long to go."

I was unsuccessful in my attempts to placate him. He is an expert at the drip-filter approach to protesting, and the noise continued for the next ten minutes all the way back down the mountain.

Suddenly, a voice piped up from the backseat.

"Max, it is disappointing. But there was a big traffic jam. And tomorrow we will go to Macdonalds and you can have chips then."

It was Bright Eyes. I nearly fell off my chair. And surprisingly, Max listened to him, and stopped yelling.