Beep beep, beep beep, Yeah!

This morning on the BBC news there was a feature on learning to drive, and more specifically, the fact that they have now increased the number of theory questions on the Highway Code from 35 to 50 and the pass rate to 85%. They made one of their roving reporters sit the test and he scored 78%, with no revision and no preparation, but with 20 years of driving experience. Not bad I thought.

Driving for me came about as naturally as the desire to pull out my teeth without anaesthetic. Like many other 17 year olds I clamoured for driving lessons for my birthday and promptly caned through a pre-booked series of 20 or so with little to no progression or skill. By the time they ran out and I questioned my instructor on whether he felt I ready for a test to be booked he told me without so much of a glimmer of humour that I probably needed to practice in-between lessons as I didn’t seem to be improving at all.

Reluctantly, my parents dug deep and we booked me up for another 20 lessons by which point I was almost 18 and was humiliated to find all my peers sailing through this little rite of passage whilst I stalled, and revved and tended to go backwards on most hill starts. To this day I’m convinced my instructor only put me forward for my test as he was sick of the sight of me and couldn’t face any more time spent with me behind the wheel. Unsurprisingly I failed. Spectacularly.

At the end of the test I overtook a parked lorry on the left hand side of the road and came head on with another car. The worst thing happened. The examiner used his breaks and I swear there was sweat on his upper lip when he scribed a big fat ‘D’ for ‘dangerous driving’ on my script. Turned out that wasn’t the only D I’d acquired, quite a few in fact. Enough for a very big breasted women.

I cried and wailed and my parents cast their eyes to heaven at the thought of even more expense. We re-booked my test and I increased the frequency of my lessons to twice weekly, and hence, twice as expensive. This time round things were going swimmingly until a cyclist swerved off the pavement in front of me and proceeded to wobble precariously. After the last test ended in Dukes of Hazard style, I was insistent that I should err on the side of caution so proceeded to chug along at 3 miles per hour for what seemed like the whole test. Terrified that if I’d tried to take him on the outside, I would have ended up with a death on my hands. I failed for being over cautious (and for creating a huge traffic jam in East Reading).

By this time my pride had taken quite enough of a bashing and so had my parents finances and we agreed that I was not a natural and should probably accept the fact that I was destined to be chauffeur driven by friends, taxis and the like and for the next 5 years, that’s exactly what happened.

I always thought that a move to somewhere a little quieter than Reading would help me out, so when Andy and I moved to our little flat on Bloomsbury Place in Brighton I decided the time was right.

Patient boyfriend with car- check.
Less lairy driving conditions- check.
Solvent- check.
Big lesbian driving instructor called ‘Di’- check.

I was ready to rock and roll and I bloody did (eventually). I’m not sure whether Di terrified me into learning FAST, or whether driving around Brighton was in general, a much more pleasant experience (even taking into account the hills) or whether it was my lovely boyfriend at the time patiently allowing me to drive us to Asda in the Marina or up to the racecourse, but I passed with only 2 minor faults.

To celebrate Andy let me drive on the motorway to Reading to show off my new found skills. We pulled into my parent’s driveway and I swung the car around to park it in the (extremely narrow) parking bay with my parents standing proudly at the window watching my every move.

Andy said ‘Slow down’ and we crashed into the side of the wooden fences either side. Well, ‘I’ crashed might be more accurate.

Me and cars are no good together. Me and taxis on the other hand…