Driving Test

Today was the day: Driving Test Day. I'm going to put you out of your misery right now and tell you that I failed. Spectacularly. And no, I am not exaggerating. "Spectacularly" is not my choice, but the actual word the examiner used. Is it odd that I find it comforting that it was so bad? At least I'm spectacular, even if I am a failure.


Honestly, in my life I have only ever failed one thing: my Grade 2 piano, by 4 marks when I was about 9 or 10. I immediately gave up piano lessons and denied I'd ever taken the thing. It's always been an such irritating stain on my clean record and it still pains me to think about it. 4 marks!! The rest were great marks and glory.


Not to say nothing ever goes wrong and I'm completely brilliant at everything. This blog is evidence of that. At life I occasionally fail miserably. But at exams I can, quite without pride or smugness, say that I'm pretty good, damn it and (Grade 2 aside) I have the certificates to prove it.


But this is a "Spectacular Failure" and I'm claiming it to prove I don't mind. Not at all. Nope.


I had a feeling this would happen. I told everyone it would happen beforehand. My first driving instructor wasn't so good, it turns out. In four months he didn't teach me any manoeuvres, and browsed the internet while I was having my lessons. He also occasionally beeped other drivers. At the time I didn't think anything of it but these maybe aren't great things. He was a brilliant guide to the pubs of North London though and he once showed me a super cute Youtube video of a Gorilla being reunited with a man he grew up with.


Eventually we parted ways for non of the above reasons. The final straw was that he had an even worse immune system than me so I kept catching colds from him. I was allergic to him.


I took my theory test alone instead and booked an intensive course. It's much nicer, after all, to drive in Wales than London.


Two weeks ago I called Tia, my new instructor. When I told her my experience I could hear the doubt in her voice. She only had four days to prepare me. Eeek! That's when I knew...


I did have a lesson in London before the intensive. After this lesson I wanted to cry a little bit because the teacher was so good. If only it had been someone competent from the start. However, I resolved to work hard and found myself in a car with Tia for 5-6 hours a day this week and it went well actually. I like driving. I understand what I need to do. It all feels fairly intuitive.


And today, when I had some last minute practise it all started to go wrong. Stupid things. Stalling. Getting reference points mixed up. But Tia said I should be able to pass if I was calm. She told me she'd kick me if I failed. My flatmates told me I wasn't allowed back in the house unless I passed. Oh Dear God, I'm homeless. With a bruised shin. And no license.


The examiner used to be a rally driver. We had a lovely chat until it all went wrong.


Eye test: fine.
Show me/tell me: fine.
Leaving test centre: fine.
Pull over: fine.
Independent driving: started off OK I think. And then...


Tom: "And what is the speed limit here?"
Me: "National...?"
Tom: "Right."
Me: *Speeds up an extra 15mph*
Tom: "Great, at the end of the road turn left."
Me:*Pulls into right hand lane and indicates right*
Tom: "Jess, why are you indicating right?"
Me: "Ermm..." *Switches to indicating left. Remains in right hand lane as approaches the roundabout. Loses all sense of direction and sanity*
Tom: ...
Me: *Takes the left exit despite there being a car on my left*
Tom: *Gives wave of thanks to traumatised driver*
Me: "Well that was a bit hairy..."


Later I did an entire 3 point turn with my handbrake on then drove off with it still on. When I realised, I stopped on a corner to take it off. So stupid. Still only about halfway through the test.


At the end he told me I got no faults for the rest of the time. I already knew I'd failed so I wasn't nervous anymore. And I'd got more than enough in the first half. 18 minors, 3 majors, one of which was "serious." So not even just a major fault, more a Brigadier General. Ouch.


OUCH!


I could only laugh a little hysterically and try and find my head that I had temporarily lost.


BUT!!! When he said "now, you know what I'm going to tell you to do next?" and I answered "Yes, never drive again" he said "No not at all. I can tell you now you are actually a natural driver and probably much better than all of these other people taking their tests. Just get some more experience and confidence."


And the ability to tell the difference between left and right perhaps.


Spectacular.

Being Alone

It started with a cinema trip. It was sort of a last minute decision to go so I went by myself. It didn't really matter though. It was a silent film and my friend Stephen, who was playing the piano (and flute...simultaneously...that's right, he's a wizard) had got me a ticket. I spent the time before the film talking to him and then to the woman beside me, until she started complaining about all the immigrants with their nail bars that are ruining Ealing. At this point I was relieved the film started so I wouldn't have to be unthinkably rude and roll my eyes at her. Until that point we'd just been admiring the Art Deco features of the cinema (so in keeping with Pandora's Box).
And then of course the projector began to roll and I spent a transfixed couple of hours with Louise Brooks and Jack the Ripper.
A couple of days later it was the theate. Again, not so strange. Who would I talk to anyway? The point of the theatre is to sit in silent concentration and soak up what is going to happen to the world by 2071 and quake in my boots. Oh God, the Carbon emissions!
And then it was a two course lunch with wine. I wasn't sure if it felt deliciously decedant or like I had no friends. Let's go with the first, shall we. Despite being alone, I was in the literary company of Robert Louis Stevenson, who assured my that my inclination to be Idle is not only justified but probably good for me. He also gave me a good talking to about whether I should be An Artist or not. The jury is still out on that one.
Apart from the book though, I chatted with the waiters and observed. What are those people talking about? Why is that couple not talking? Who's is that baby?
I wondered what people would observe about me. But I wasn't being observed. I was alone and invisible to the diners of Sloane Square.
It was really rather nice.
So quite a lot of me time this last week and I'm unashamedly relishing it. In order that I don't embark on a phase of complete reclusion, however, I'm sharply cutting myself off. For a little at least. And now I sign off and speak to some friends. I forgot to mention that I'm being anti-social as we speak. But that's the internet for you! 

Silence

I recently spent three days without a voice. Yes, we all know I have an inadequate immune system so this probably won't surprise anyone. It did surprise me though; every time I opened my mouth and no sound came out except a mere whisper; because I had no other symptoms. I felt perfectly fine until I tried to speak and...nothing. It's just so disconcerting, frankly.

The only reason I can think of, for such a malady to bring me down, is all those hours I spent as a child wishing I was Ariel. Obviously, what happened is that the Sea-Witch came to me secretly at some point on Saturday, and stole my voice. Serves me right for wishing to be someone else. Ariel, did not have it good. And I am not a good swimmer. It never would've worked.

Like The Little Mermaid, the thing that I found most challenging was no being able to sing. Although if I'm completely honest 'able to sing' is not something I would ever advertise about myself. I like it though, and you can't take that away from me! Except...yes actually, you can. Those three days, every time a song I like came on the radio or I got out the old ukulele, I'd end up making a noise like a ancient strangled cat and wanted to cry a little bit. Imagine how Ariel felt: she could actually sing.

I never really thought of myself as an especially chatty individual. When I saw it in Eat, Pray, Love I figured a vow of silence would be the easiest thing in the world, and I'm often quite happy to sit and not talk to people (in a comfortable silence kind of way, not in a awkward loner way...I hope). But it turns out I talk more than I thought. I couldn't help it. There were fun people having stupid conversations and I wanted in. A game of ballet/opera charades was eventually resorted to. Do you know how hard it is to think of one of these that doesn't have a name for a title? Or a probably made up word?

And then there is customer service. Never ideal to answer questions using a combination of mime and lip reading. It doesn't seem quite professional. For some reason it also feels wrong to accept the many offers of throat pastilles offered to me...although I am still curious about the Chinese herb ones offered by a small girl.

Talking of small girls, even worse is silently teaching them to dance. "Miss Jess, why is your voice so low?" / "Arrrrrrhhhhh!!!!!" (as they run around the room pretending to be a Polar Bear...how did this happen?!!)

But slowly, slowly it returns. And alas, for some people I regret the loss of the excuse: *touches throat, shakes head, mouthes "sorry, I can't talk," waves hand vaguely in front of mouth.* I don't mean you though. For you I will sing a song. 

Dating

In an update from last time, I have recently been flirting (badly) with online dating. It was a kind of experiment on myself: a challenge to the sentiments of my last blog.

The things that sparked this decision were threefold:

• I thought it might make an interesting blog (although maybe I am wrong...feel free to correct me).
• I hate dating and like to challenge myself occasionally. I figured it would be good practise for some future point in time when I may want to put myself through this ordeal properly.
• Peer pressure. Well...not pressure so much as the thought being gently put in my head. I know a lot of people who are dating, and a few who met their partners online. Some love it; some have hilarious anecdotes which might be worth all the crazy involved. Perhaps it would be good for me too.

So I joined Tinder first. The reasoning behind this was that I didn't have to care about any of those people because they were Tinder people. They probably didn't care either. 

But my phone mysteriously rejected it after two days and only one "I'm looking for sex. Interested?" It clearly wasn't meant to be.

But not one to give up at the first hurdle, I joined OKCupid instead. This was a bit more serious. I had to answer questions about myself, make lists of my favourite things, decide what I was looking for...basically market myself properly.

Here is the first problem: everyone sounds the same when they write a profile. Everyone loves travelling; everyone likes To Kill a Mockingbird; everyone is learning to play the guitar; everyone loves their job and hanging out in Shoreditch; everyone has a picture of them with a dog.

I started off saying the person I was looking for would be nice, and fun. After a couple of messages and dates experience I added the following: someone who does not spend their life with their phone in their hand; someone who is ok with me not being ok with PDA; someone who would rather play ping-pong/go climbing/ice-skating than go for another drink.

But what about me? What did I write about myself?...Well, I'll get to that later and tell you what you actually want to hear first.

The Messages: (Some quotes)

"Hey! How r u?"

"Do you like tall men?"

"You do realise your clothes make you look 40 right?"

"How are you making that camel laugh like that?"

"Where do you climb trees? Will you show me?"

"Is this the first message you have got?"

"I once tried a beer called Herpes. I've had cold sores ever since."

The Dates: (Some notes)

1. Met on Southbank and had a drink in a pub. I was successfully late (a good start) and spotted man in a blue hat. Not attractive at all which was a relief for date number 1. Didn't have to be nervous. He had just come from a funeral: spent the first 15 minutes talking about death. Suspect he is pretty intense at best of times. Spoke about ourselves a bit. He has PHD in biochemistry. Must try to make myself seem less directionless and invent some kind of ambition. He would not tell me where he was from and made me guess by asking non-geographical questions. "Show me your national dance?" "What are your main exports?" "Left or right wing?" Finally guessed Portugal (correctly) after asking football based question (shocking!). I know all about Portugal now. Didn't reply to his message. Didn't see him again.
2. Met in Shoreditch for drink and game of pool. He was nice, interesting and very tall. In a goofy kind of way but that's fine. Good chat, liked each other. Moved to other pub. Realised he had been to the loo way more than me. Weird. Felt smug for choosing whiskey over beer. At some point realised he had edged around the table and was sitting too close to me. Informed him I didn't like public displays of affection. After he tried to convince me that no one cares for long enough that I felt bad arguing, I allowed him to kiss me. Hated myself for giving in. Was confused by manner of kissing. Wondered if I should tell him. Didn't. Said goodbye and laughed all the way home. Tried to organise second date (he was nice after all) but had conflicting schedules. He re-arranged twice before I told him it wasn't going to happen. Ain't nobody got time fo' that!
3. Freaked out in advance because I knew he was a classical guitarist and I got it into my head he would have talons for fingernails on one hand. Met for a walk to Highgate and spent a lot of time trying to see his hand. Failed. Had tea and cake and discussed fingernails. Not as bad as imagined. Still... Was nice. Had comforting Northern accent. Only replied to text to say it was nice to meet him too. 
4. Bastard didn't turn up. Thank God I arranged it near my house and had a lovely walk across the Heath instead. 

Shortly after this I deleted my account. I came to the conclusion that I don't like strangers. Why would I date them? Also, knowing I don't like dating, why would I put myself through that just for practise? Stupid idea. 

The thing is, it actually matters very little what I wrote about myself, I don't want to feel like a check-list. Small: yes. Has hobbies: yes. Like Nick Cave and dogs: yes. 

No. I don't really want someone who wants me because of those things. They are surface. I'm also a directionless, emotionally-challenged, bad cook who talks to myself and pays someone to fix my bike when I get a puncture. I wonder what response I would get if I wrote that...and all the rest. 

So experiment conducted and hypothesis proven: not for me. In addition, and without much concern for when, if something is going to happen, it'll happen. If not, I have some friends who'll play ping-pong with me instead.

The trouble with being single

In a moment of Bridget Jones style cliché, I received an email recently from my Grandmother. Three lines ending in something like:

"Your cousin has a handsome boyfriend. Here is a photo."

In other words, "don't you think you should find yourself one of those?"

And that is the trouble with being single. Other people. I mean, I've only been single three minutes (months) and I'm quite enjoying the extra free time. Give me a chance will you?! (Yes, on one hand, fewer cuddles now. On the other, I'm probably slightly happier and spend a lot less time waiting around.)

I replied that I would have sent a photo of me and the handsome ex, but there was not much point now. Maybe I still should so she can sigh over the grandson-in-law that she'll never have.

But then, that was never likely. When people would ask me stupid things like "is he the one?" I would always roll my eyes and tut. There is no "one." 7 billion people in the world and I can only be happy with one?! Well, there's no hope then.

Really I meant that I probably knew he wasn't but was avoiding the issue because he was a good egg and I didn't want to taint my own and other people's perception of the truth, which would have been: "no, he's not the one, but for now that's ok."

But this blog is not about my relationship, it's about what other people expect you to do. Specifically what my grandparents expect me to do. That being: get married, set up house, have babies. Like.. now. Yuck.

Not that I know what I want to do for the next ten days, let alone the next ten years but at the moment I tend to find myself imagining buying a camper van, driving off into the world and possibly allowing an exotic lover to join me. Then we will save the world somehow and eat marshmallows everyday.

But another point to consider here. I have a dog. Every time I have to wake up with him; or he barks at me; or I have to take him out and either i can't be bothered or it's raining; I regret ever agreeing to have him. I love him, but I resent him. Good lord people! I shouldn't have children! So that agreed upon: what's the hurry?

Also, may I add, with these thinly veiled hints that I am not fulfilling my pre-ordained destiny as sacred mother vessel, and my life will not be complete until the day I walk down the aisle, dewy-eyed, in a meringue dress; I am much more likely to remain the dreaded spinster forever just to prove I'm ok with that. I'm stubborn, you see. I will be eccentric and have a wilderness garden and talk to the birds and "wear purple, with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me," and be quite jolly about it all.

My other grandmother took the opposite line. "I'm sorry to hear about your break-up, but I think you're a good-time girl."

...?

...I'm not sure we have the same mental image for "good-time girl."

I hope she is imagining a modern day flapper/independent woman/bright young thing. She did after all qualify it by telling me I had much more world to go see and taste.

Exactly.

A week

4 operas, 5 bottles of wine and an Eton Mess. 

12 journeys by bike, 7 buses and a car. Many walks with a puppy.

Many kisses from a puppy.

5 meals with friends who made me smile; 2 days with mummy who stroked my hair. Sadness. A belly laugh. An answered question. An unfinished book. A deadline. 

2 rehearsals, 11 white items of clothing, a mask.

1 free ticket to a secret garden where Godesses will dance for Irish rappers. Naturally. 

8 Egyptian mummies, a wig and an ancient tattoo.

1 "tutto bene?" Non lo so. 

1 tour, 9 old people, 4 bits of wall, a church, a tower, 100s of years, 1 imagination that sees things no longer there.

A homemade curry. A slice of banana bread. 

A ballet class, true love, music that could make you cry if you weren't happy, an excited body and a calmed mind. Barre and centre. Like coming home.

A rowing boat and an ice cream.

4 children, 4 stories, 4 games of snap.

Pen and paper. 

7 sleeps, 2 naps. 2 bad dreams, one good remembered. 

A countdown. 

Happiness, sadness, confusion, hunger, gratitude amongst others. 

2 street parties passed at a distance. Once lost. 

A blog. 

Ode to a Rich Tea

It's not often that I'm sure about what I want from life but today I realised something: of the many indistinct and changeable dreams I have, one desire stands out as something both achievable and mouth-wateringly lovely. 

What I want in my life is a full and varied biscuit tin. That is happiness. 

Now, I don't want you thinking I'm getting all metaphorical and "life is like a box of chocolates" on you. I mean real biscuits: shortbread, Nice, chocolate hobnobs, those coconut ones my grandparents get, and all nestled together in a tin with a picture of a cat or duck or Scottish landscape.

And in this oaty, buttery, melt-in-your-mouth ambition, I might make my own. Mum used to make magical biscuit. I can barely remember the taste however they looked crunchy but were actually a bit chewy, and when you snapped them in half, they were hollow like a cave full of stalegmites. If anyone has a recipe for something similar please let me know. Ours has been lost to time.

Of course I'll take the metaphor as well...if life was a biscuit tin and all that, but I just want something to dunk in my tea basically. Heaven.

I don't know about you but biscuits are so full of nostalgia. They remind me of school snack time, with a cup of orange juice; of home baking; of Sunday afternoons at my grandparents' houses. 

And the tin! That's important. Right now, if I have biscuits they come straight from the packet and I have one type. A tin means they are treasure, an event, a choice.

What dies all this say about me? Is a girl whose only concrete dream is to have a selection of biscuits a premature geriatric? Too comfy? I ambitious? You know what?- I don't even care!

Of course this is not my only dream. One day I'll make something beautiful; I'll dance naked in the rain; I will live in another country; I will feel tiny in a big world; I will be outside a lot; I will dance and make stories always; I will discover what I want to do with my life.

See. Mainly cloudy ideas, but I can achieve the biscuits right now. They are in the shop. 

I suppose I could dance naked next time it rains but it's not the same in London. I'm imagining a forest and no audience. I don't want to be arrested. 

Ok, I'm hungry now. Someone bring me a Bourbon. 

Calling in sick

I just called in sick. It's about time actually, I've been suffering from various severities of cold and cough for 6 weeks now. I don't know what my body is trying to tell me but enough is enough: I'm going to assume it's telling me to stop for a little while so I can fight off this thing with all of the home remedies, possets and potions people keep telling me about.
Ginger and lemon tea.
Hot toddy.
Inhale Vicks vapour rub steam.
Rub oil into your feet.
Garlic.
Thyme.
Chillies.
Eat everything (feed a cold).
Don't eat. Just drink juiced Superfoods.
Rest in bed.
Go for a walk.
Watch Anchorman.
Read Zadie Smith.
Anything else to add, anyone?

The thing is though, that I've tried all these things. I've even tried feeding myself properly and regularly (shocking!) and nothing seems to work. I start to recover from one virus and another one sneaks up on me. When will it end?! I may have to go into quarantine and only drink Barocca if I'm not better...immanently. I can't even remember what it's like to go through a day without blowing my nose.... A night without coughing...
Sigh...
The prevailing feeling is not self-pity though. It's irritation, and I don't mean somewhere in my sinuses. I mean that I always wanted to be more and Elizabeth Bennet than a Jane. Hardy Lizzy who go stomping across fields with mud on the hem of her dress, not sickly Jane who goes out in the rain and spends a week in bed. I don't want to be a delicate, sickly, Romantic heroine.
Did you ever think though, that what Jane probably had when she was suffering enforced bed rest at Bingley's, was a cold. Maybe flu. That's what you catch from being out in the rain (according to tellers of old-wives tales). So, that assumed, I don't know how she ended up (SPOILER ALERT!!) married to Bingley. How was he not repulsed by all the mucus and the red nose? Colds aren't the most attractive look. I certainly wouldn't catch a man like this. I can only surmise that Jane was exaggerating and had she lived today, would have called in sick if she'd sneezed twice.
We all know those people.
Which is another reason I don't enjoy the "I'm not coming in today" phone call. Because I worry they will think I'm that person, when in fact I have a genuinely shitty immune system and no one should be near me.
Saying that, I never assume anyone is lying when they say they are ill, so I don't know why they would think it of me. I suppose it's because my mum always notices when people are ill all the time, and that she rarely is. And if she is, she works anyway more often than not. That's the sign of someone who suffers with headaches. They are martyrs because you can't catch a migraine.
You can catch a cold though, so as I said, I'll stay away from you for a while.
So, to your good health! And mine.

Learning to live with Willie Nelson

This, reader, is Willie Nelson, the newest addition to our household. 

Just as I began to write this blog he sneaked upstairs and did a wee on the rug. I even told him I was writing this so he can't complain that I'm embarrassing him. He certainly had this naming-and-shaming coming.
On the bright side, now that he has relieved himself (in entirely the wrong place as usual) I don't have the fear that I need to keep a beady eye on him wherever he goes for a little while.
I'm on puppy duty today. It's a shame to miss the sunshine but we've opened all the windows, played ball games, tug-of-war games, had a small photoshoot, and even tested out his lead so we could at least pretend we could go for walkies. Unfortunately he doesn't like his lead so that game didn't last long. Not sure what will happen when he's allowed outside (1 week!!), but actually I expect him to be a bit afraid of it. He shook the first time he went into the kitchen, he'll probably have a small panic attack on venturing into far bigger, scarier territory.
I suppose it's fine though. I'm a bit ill still so this forced indoors/tea time is not bad thing.
Small break in writing here when I realise WN has disappeared and I search the house for him, finally finding him napping on my flatmate's jeans.
He shouldn't be napping. He kept everyone awake last night, crying in the kitchen. Remind me to apologise to the neighbours when I see them. So, except for a couple of hours when I wanted him to stop bothering me so I could read the paper, I've been trying to keep him awake. Well, serves him right doesn't it! Also, and more importantly, I'd like him to be tired tonight. So tired he doesn't need someone sat by his bed all night. So tired he doesn't bark. He's a Yorkshire Terrier: a breed not known for soothing vocal qualities.
Despite the weeing and barking, he's alright, is Willie. We're pals. Especially when he does exciting things like sit on command and master the stairs; or sweet things like lick your face if you whine like you are sad.
However, his arrival did signal a sort of life crisis for me. One that was probably not helped by a cough that has stopped me sleeping for any more than a couple of hours since Monday. There's nothing like exhaustion to blow everything out of proportion.
Let me explain puppies to you. PUPPIES ARE BABIES. Babies which are highly mobile, think biting is affectionate, can't wear nappies, and will never grow up. I'm still not entirely convinced I'm ready, even with two responsibility sharing flatmates, to be a parent.
The main reason for this is my life (hence my small personal crisis). It's not enviable. I get by. I don't love my job. I don't travel enough, dance enough, read enough, write enough, see my friends enough. The best thing about it was the fact I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, within reason. I had no ties.
Now I do, and his name is Willie Nelson. He makes me spend my evenings off in the house cleaning the carpet so I don't lose my deposit.
This, I'm sure will get better when he can leave the house and come out with me. Also, when the three of us organise our timetables better. We had to get 4 puppy-sitters this week. This will cost us a fortune in lasagne and pasta bake.
But Willie has also taught me something else: talking about your problems does not fix them. Controversial, I know. People are always telling me to discuss my feeling; tell people when they are being thoughtless or making me angry; be a grown up.
My evidence is this. Before getting Willie Nelson I twice told my flatmates I didn't think I wanted a dog and didn't think it was a good idea. That he was adorable and I already loved him, having seen him just once but I had the fear.
And the result: we got a dog and I have to accept him and learn to be fine with everything, just the same as if I had bottled up my feelings as usual.
Now, I don't want you all to go thinking I'm suffering terribly. It was my fault in the first place for thinking of these problems when we were basically already committed to getting a dog. We'd visited WN and family already. Flatmates just tried to calm me and assure me this was not the end of the world I feared.
And it's quite satisfying that I was right all along about the uselessness of discussion. I take back my Lent resolution to talk about my feelings. What a waste of time.
And to be fair the fact that I have a puppy, is softened by the fact I have a puppy to comfort me. So that's nice. He's trying to read now what I've said about him. We're bonding. He says he likes me best and he can't wait until we can go to the pub together.
Neither can I Willie Nelson, neither can I. Now I'm stuck with you, it's a good job I love you.

And that is what's called: making the best of it.

Driving lessons

Oh dear, it has been a while hasn't it? Two months into the year and only one blog. Terrible.
However, I am sticking with the theme of transportation and moving from bikes to cars. That's right, I'm learning to drive.
The aim is to be roadworthy by the end of the year (preferably September), and that seems like a long time and a small fortune on driving lessons. However I think, considering it's me and I'm hardly the most confident road user, too many lessons are better than not quite enough. My main problems seem to be realising how wide the car and the road are. I'm so used to only navigating my midget frame through the world that I don't trust at all that a car will fit through any gap narrower than the full road. Oncoming buses are not good for my nerves.
Neither are the pedestrians. Especially pram pushing pedestrians who walk out into the road without looking. It's like they have a death wish for their babies.
On the bright side, once I've mastered the art of the near miss, I'll be so London savvy I will be able to drive anywhere.
You'll be pleased to know that it's all going well. Yesterday I zoomed along at a healthy national speed limit pace, I skirted the M25, I took on several roundabouts, including the one that I once navigated my mum around the wrong way (wrong lane not anticlockwise- I'm not that stupid).  I told her to follow a brown car that didn't exist and gave entirely useless information like "that way!"
Maybe I did freak out on one roundabout. It was all wrong. I tried to start in forth gear, forgot how to steer and lost the clutch in one fell swoop. Kevin, my instructor (highly recommended) pretty much had to drive me out of it from the passenger seat.
I don't know what came over me, except that it sounded like a feeble whimper. I can only assume I was briefly possessed.
My driving career did not start in a very promising manner. I had a couple of lessons when I was 17 but all I remember about them was putting the visor down with both hands as I approached a roundabout. That instructor quit soon after, oddly, although I'm sure I wasn't the real cause.
And then there is the volvo-gate for which I would like to issue a public apology. It was during a road trip to Scotland that my friend offered me a tiny driving lesson. Her parents' car, which we had borrowed was automatic so it was a go/stop kind of affair. Being the cautious person I am, I initially refused the lap of the car park, but my excitement won out and five minutes later I had successfully driven in a circle and arrived back in the parking space. Hurrah!
Then I had a second go. And for some reason, as I was pulling into the space a second time, my friend obviously thought I wasn't stopping quickly enough. Probably she was right but I was basically just rolling into the spot. So when she said "and stop...Stop!" I panicked and put my foot on the brake.
Except that it wasn't the brake.
Duel control would have been very useful in this situation, however the car did bump into the wall and the number plate came off. I'm assured this was pretty much the extent of the damage but at the time I was convinced it was awful and I was going to have to buy a new car.
To add insult to injury, the other friend on the road trip was filming the whole thing: Jess's first driving lesson. So somewhere, hopefully never to be seen, is footage of the whole sorry fiasco.
Friend's lovely parents only recently found out what really happened. Friend told them she had done it when a lonely sheep had wandered out into the road. Naturally.
So I'm very sorry about that and I dedicate this blog to you both. I promise next time I crash a car it will not be yours, and I will be fully licensed and insured. I love you. (Too far?)
But now it's going well. Kevin actually says I'm above average, which I suspect may be to bolster my confidence, but I choose to believe him. It certainly helps that I now know which pedal is stop and which is go.

Bicycle Wheels

As some of you might know, I have a bike and her name is Isadora. It's always a comfort when cycling to know she's on my side. As though we have joint responsibility for our lives. 

Yesterday Isadora was cruelly murdered in the street. Both wheels taken. If she is not quite dead she is certainly now maimed and broken and cannot run free. 

There is nothing sadder looking than a bike like this.

Here I would like to add: thieves are so....mean! That's my bike you've just ruined. What have I done to you ever?! And not just my bike, but Isadora: a living, feeling (inanimate) object. She a person! 

But then again..she isn't at all. It's an it, not a she, and I've certainly made myself feel worse by personifying her. 

I have a tendency to do this but I just like the magic a name brings to things. Names are power. I know this from books. They told me so. 

But if you give something a name, are you increasing the risk of heartbreak (and mental instability) when things go wrong? 

Take Isadora. Now I'm faced with a choice: buy new wheels, or buy new bike? In the January sales, what is cheaper? And can I really betray Isadora by replacing her? She carried me in a child seat when I was a baby. How could I just throw her away? 

But the point of having a bike is to save money, and won't I save money in the long run by buying a better bike and not having to fix it up all the time? Isadora is so old anyway.

And then I feel heartless. What a conundrum. 

Because I not so materialistic I don't think, but I do become emotionally attached to some of my belongings. Don't we all. But in the end, is that good for me? If I just thought of it all as "stuff" would that make me less sad when it gets ruined or lost? 

Actually no. I can help it. Stuff is rubbish. I'd much rather have Isadora than a bike. 

But the question remains: save her or move on? 

On a happy aside, I want to tell you about the man who cheered me up yesterday without know what he did. I was of course in a bad mood all morning. Then on my break a man appeared and handed out teddy bears to me and four other girls, and a kitkat to the guys. They came out of nowhere and he just disappeared around the corner on the way out. 

Apparently he often gives out presents just because, but has just really upped his game with Teddys. It's just a pity he wasn't giving out bike wheels but never mind.

There are some great people around aren't there?! So thank you Rob from armoury. I'm naming the bear after you.