Getting there is half the fun

At what point in a person's life do they become obsessed with directions? At some stage, I'm almost certain, I'll start beginning conversations with 'which way did you come?'

For some time there's been a burning issue at the back of my mind that I've been trying to resolve: at what point in a person's life do they become obsessed with directions? At the moment, at the practically juvenile age of 31, I'm happy to get from A to B, or to hear about anyone else's voyage between such letters, without a great deal of concern about the route taken, so long as it hasn't added half a day to the journey.

But at some stage, I'm almost certain, like my parents and countless other people of advanced years, I'll start beginning conversations with "which way did you come?" and telling all my friends with giddy excitement how I managed to shave 30 seconds off my drive home, thanks to the discovery of a new backstreet.

When guests come round to visit, rather than greeting them with the offer of a cup of tea, I'll start grilling them on their route, before engaging them in intense debate as to why they'd have been better turning left at suchandsuch road, thus nullifying any time that would have been saved through the hours spent talking about it. I've seen it happen. I've been that guest. It's not fun.

For my dad, looking at maps went beyond a hobby. I only had to say that I was planning to go into town and within minutes he'd have used some clever computer programme to print off an entire book worth of possible routes for me to use, taking into account various different extreme weather conditions (just in case, you know, the whole of Manchester flooded).

My mum - equally concerned about efficient road usage but not quite so computer-literate - would just shout directions. Recently however, in a remarkable act of admission regarding the potential flaws in her map knowledge, she purchased a GPS unit for her car. Given that her first text message in 2007 ("Happy Birthday Alex Luv Mum", if you were wondering) was cause for celebration, this was a major move towards 21st-century living for the Ritman household.

Finally, I thought, I can come home and enjoy leisurely drives without the cursed A-Z being summoned to prove a total unnecessary point. Not so. Unfortunately, what I failed to realise was that my mother - a somewhat stubborn woman at the best of times - was obviously going to follow what she believed over that of a small plastic box, and the friendly voice giving directional advice to my mum was simply an extra person to disagree with (even when I changed it to the chirpy Irish setting).

An adventure into the British countryside was not, as I'd hoped, the chance to enjoy some lush greenery free from any arguments as to how to get there. Instead, it became an hour of listening to my mum make sarcastic remarks whenever the GPS unit made another catastrophic error, before explaining to me why it clearly hadn't taken into account the rush-hour traffic around the ring road. Joy.

The trouble is, I know I'll be just like that very soon.

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