After weeks of tears sweat and pain behind the wheel, my driving test is finally upon me.
Off I totter to the Croydon test centre feeling sick to my stomach. It is no good, my nerves are in pieces.
I meet my examiner and shake hands. Looking into her eyes I hope that she will take pity on me. Into the driving seat and off I go. I try to cover my nerves by concentrating extra hard, something that has never come easy to me (unless I am shopping for clothes).
All seems to be going okay, ( apart from another learner trying to crash into me at the entrance to the test centre) I think to myself. How I wish I hadn’t. Right around the next turn is a large truck with a crane on top. Traffic is stuck all around it. Great. I manage to get by okay but am then alarmed to find that I have stalled. Fantastic. I try to take a deep breath but feel like there is no oxygen left in the car. I finally get going again but from that moment on I cannot contain my shaky hands. Or leg for that matter, why it is just the one I have no clue. My right leg is behaving nicely.
I get my first manoeuvre out of the way, but still find myself struggling to breath. This is not good. Try as I might I cannot relax and successfully manage to stall the car again. I can feel the examiner subconsciously roll her eyes at my stupidity.
Finally back at the test centre and I do a perfect reverse park. She then takes a moment to gather my fate and hit’s me with the last fatal blow.
I have FAILED.
She attempts to console me by reminding me that at least I don’t have a long journey to come and do it again. Yeah, thanks. I silently nod and contain my anger.
My instructor returns to the car and offers her condolences. Second time lucky, she reassures. I thank her and head home to smoke a packet of cigs and book a new test.
After an hour of wallowing I decide that all is not quite lost yet. I throw the empty cigarette packet in the bin and return to my sensible non smoking self.
What’s that saying?
If you don’t succeed try, try, try not to stall again?
Thursday, 31 July 2008
Pregnant? No, just buying a car.
With my driving test just around the corner I had been giving the man’s car the eye. No doubt it had seen better days but with a little good loving I was sure that there were still a few more to come.
Just a week to go before my test she decided that the prospect of being driven by me was too much for her wheels to bear, leaving us for the dealership in the sky. The man and I are equally grief stricken.
A new ( for us, used in reality) car must be found.
I discovered that buying a new car is almost as painful a process as pregnancy.
Here is how it works.
First you decide that a new car is required. This is can be likened to the early stages of pregnancy, excitement, expectation and a little nerves at what the end result will be.
Then we move to deciding a budget. This is the first niggle that distracts from any initial excitement. Very like morning sickness, the reality of the situation puts a bit of a dampener on things.
With that decided the hunting begins. To start with you are optimistic that your perfect lump of metal is just around the next internet site. But as time goes by you discover that these things can never be that straightforward. Making you consider how painful the whole process might be.
Finally you reach the point where you believe that you cannot bear one more day. That you just want the whole sorry affair to be over and to catch sight of your new bundle of joy. Stress, tears and resentment replace that excitement that you felt back at the start.
After two false alarms ( both perfect cars have already sold) You begin to lose hope that your journey will ever end.
Then just as you truly think that you will never smell the sweet fragrance of your new addition, one pops up in the nick of time. With the keys in the ignition all the hurt and frustration of the past weeks is soon forgotten.
Our new baby is born, and boy is she expensive.
Just a week to go before my test she decided that the prospect of being driven by me was too much for her wheels to bear, leaving us for the dealership in the sky. The man and I are equally grief stricken.
A new ( for us, used in reality) car must be found.
I discovered that buying a new car is almost as painful a process as pregnancy.
Here is how it works.
First you decide that a new car is required. This is can be likened to the early stages of pregnancy, excitement, expectation and a little nerves at what the end result will be.
Then we move to deciding a budget. This is the first niggle that distracts from any initial excitement. Very like morning sickness, the reality of the situation puts a bit of a dampener on things.
With that decided the hunting begins. To start with you are optimistic that your perfect lump of metal is just around the next internet site. But as time goes by you discover that these things can never be that straightforward. Making you consider how painful the whole process might be.
Finally you reach the point where you believe that you cannot bear one more day. That you just want the whole sorry affair to be over and to catch sight of your new bundle of joy. Stress, tears and resentment replace that excitement that you felt back at the start.
After two false alarms ( both perfect cars have already sold) You begin to lose hope that your journey will ever end.
Then just as you truly think that you will never smell the sweet fragrance of your new addition, one pops up in the nick of time. With the keys in the ignition all the hurt and frustration of the past weeks is soon forgotten.
Our new baby is born, and boy is she expensive.
Load of balls
Playing the national lottery used to be fun.
Select a few random numbers and off they roll, a tenner here, a tenner there, never the jackpot but maybe one day. All a bit of harmless fun.
Somewhere the fun of doing the lottery has been lost. In fact I can pinpoint the exact moment. It would be when the man suggested that we stick to the same birthday numbers every week.
Being the scatter-head that I am I had always avoided chosing the same numbers in fear that one week they will come up and I forgot to buy the ticket. So for a time I contested the mans suggestion and merrily picked random as and when I could be bothered. Eventually though I agreed, believing that if I didn’t I would not hear the last of it. I decided to make one rule, that the man be responsible for the purchasing.
From that minute onwards I knew the fun of the game was over. Every week I reminded the man, as he did me if he could not get to a lotto point (so much for our deal). This continued for two very stressful years and a fair few pounds. With a grand total of £20 in winnings not great.
Once we had started how could we stop? The numbers were bound to pop up on that exact week and no doubt we would end up divorcing over it. I began to believe that those sneaks at lotto headquarters must be rubbing their greasy little hands together at our stupidity. There had to be some way of justifying a reason to stop.
Then it happened, well toddler son happened. You see, we had based our numbers on birthdays ( as do most people ) The mans, mine, my mothers, his mothers, and our two children. Six magical stupid numbers. Yet now we had another child. How could we leave his birthday out?? Ha haa, this was the perfect opportunity to end it. We could go back to random digits and the fun of choice.
Funnily enough, this time around it was not the man that was worried by the impending doom of those previous numbers rolling out. No. It was me.
When it came to the crunch I couldn’t do it. “It could be you” rings in my ears, followed closely by “Not without those numbers though”.
I have reasoned to myself that when we win the lottery toddler son wont mind being left out much. After all, being potty trained on the golden toilet I buy will be far more cosy than that old white thing.
Note to self: Get a grip, buy a lottery ticket and some gold paint.
Select a few random numbers and off they roll, a tenner here, a tenner there, never the jackpot but maybe one day. All a bit of harmless fun.
Somewhere the fun of doing the lottery has been lost. In fact I can pinpoint the exact moment. It would be when the man suggested that we stick to the same birthday numbers every week.
Being the scatter-head that I am I had always avoided chosing the same numbers in fear that one week they will come up and I forgot to buy the ticket. So for a time I contested the mans suggestion and merrily picked random as and when I could be bothered. Eventually though I agreed, believing that if I didn’t I would not hear the last of it. I decided to make one rule, that the man be responsible for the purchasing.
From that minute onwards I knew the fun of the game was over. Every week I reminded the man, as he did me if he could not get to a lotto point (so much for our deal). This continued for two very stressful years and a fair few pounds. With a grand total of £20 in winnings not great.
Once we had started how could we stop? The numbers were bound to pop up on that exact week and no doubt we would end up divorcing over it. I began to believe that those sneaks at lotto headquarters must be rubbing their greasy little hands together at our stupidity. There had to be some way of justifying a reason to stop.
Then it happened, well toddler son happened. You see, we had based our numbers on birthdays ( as do most people ) The mans, mine, my mothers, his mothers, and our two children. Six magical stupid numbers. Yet now we had another child. How could we leave his birthday out?? Ha haa, this was the perfect opportunity to end it. We could go back to random digits and the fun of choice.
Funnily enough, this time around it was not the man that was worried by the impending doom of those previous numbers rolling out. No. It was me.
When it came to the crunch I couldn’t do it. “It could be you” rings in my ears, followed closely by “Not without those numbers though”.
I have reasoned to myself that when we win the lottery toddler son wont mind being left out much. After all, being potty trained on the golden toilet I buy will be far more cosy than that old white thing.
Note to self: Get a grip, buy a lottery ticket and some gold paint.
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