Are We Nearly There Yet?

It is halfterm. Husband has a rare two days off so we are determined to Make The Most Of It and see how far along the motorway we can get in the untrusty Volvo before one of its wheels falls off, or the gearbox explodes, or whatever it was that prevented us from getting to Longleat Center Parcs last October halfterm. We are aiming to get to Norfolk to see my sister and Husband's brother. (I should clarify that they do not live together. That would just be too weird.)
Small Boy is not good at long car journeys. He gets itchy the minute we leave the village. We are already on our fifth round of Twenty Questions before we have joined the motorway. It is a tedious enough game at the best of times, but Small Boy manages to take the tedium to new heights. This is mainly because there is never any point in asking the question, "Animal, vegetable or mineral?" as the category he chooses is always "Animal". And the animal he chooses is always some obscure variety of creature, usually only found on Madagascar.
We all pretend to find it fascinating for about fifteen seconds, but the game quickly descends into a shouting match along the lines of, "Oh for heaven's sake who on earth knows what a lesser-toothed mongat weasel looks like anyway?" (The answer to that complaint is often, "David Attenborough.")
Small Boy excels himself this morning, however: "Did you know that we are all related to dung beetles," he announces emphatically, cutting across an argument about it being against the rules to choose an animal no one has ever heard of. "We are all related to every animal, actually."
"Oh yeah?" says Daughter. "Who told you that?"
"Charles Darwin," says Small Boy airily. "It was all his idea."
"How about we stop playing Twenty Questions?" I suggest.
"How about no?" says Small Boy.
"Are we on the M25 yet?" asks Daughter. "Only I hate the M25."
This seems rather a forceful opinion to have, seeing as she does not yet drive and does not even travel on the M25 more than about twice a year.
"Why's that?" I ask.
"Well, you know - it's like that poem by Paul Cookson," chips in Small Boy. "You're always . . . " he takes a deep breath and chants: " 'Stuck behind the man, stuck behind the man, stuck behind the man in the caravan' on the M25, aren't you?"
Daughter and Small Boy immediately launch into a long and loud rendition of the poem - or rather the refrain.
"STUCK BEHIND THE MAN, STUCK BEHIND THE MAN, STUCK BEHIND THE MAN IN THE CA-RA-VAN!"
"Oh look, there's Windsor Castle!" Husband shouts in desperation.
"Is that where the Queen and Dead Prince Philip went to avoid the Royal Wedding?" asks Small Boy.
"He's not dead," says Daughter witheringly. "He only looks it."
"That's not very kind," I say.
"Never mind," says Small Boy. "Can I have a Penguin biscuit?"
I rummage around in my handbag which has morphed into a receptacle for anything that did not make it into the main luggage for the weekend. I am just about to panic as all I can find are dog biscuits, a tic-remover, a packet of earplugs and three hairbrushes, when a glimpse of shiny paper reassures me that there are snacks somewhere in the bottom of the melee.
"Here you are." I pass a packet of Penguins into the back.
"Oh, look - jokes!" Small Boy cries with glee. "What language do penguins speak? . . . Finnish! Harahahahhaaaarrrrhaaa!" He gurgles hysterically while the rest of us exchange blank looks.
"Why is that funny?" asks Daughter.
Small Boy stops laughing and looks up from the biscuit wrapper like a startled tortoise. "Dunno. I mean, I get the 'Fin' bit, but what about the 'nish'? But hey, look at this!" he cries, pointing at the wrapper again. "In the ingredients, it says it contains 'glutton'! Er, what is glutton?"
Husband is shaking his head wearily.
I slouch back in my seat and stare forlornly out of the window while considering putting in the earplugs.
"Are we nearly there yet?" I ask.