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.