Blame it on a backroad

My wise old pal Little Hannah says you should learn a new skill in your 40s. I thought I might learn to play the mandola! But for some reason that idea didn't prove too popular with the household. Then circumstances beyond my control meant that, 28 years after my last attempt, I found myself booked in for a driving lesson.

Not straight away of course. First I had to have a convoluted conversation with the DVLA to establish what my driving licence number was. Apparently, stoned 17-year old me had applied for a provisional licence - long since lost. But your number remains your number forever. And the government won't tell you what it is unless you can prove who you are. Do you know what is suggested as a satisfactory form of ID for this purpose? A driving licence. 

Naturally, they don't accept the government-issued (and slightly Orwellian sounding) Voter Authority Certificate that I use to identify myself when voting. It always makes the staff at the polling station chuckle. I imagine they have an over/under sweepstake on how many they will see that day. "Hey Deirdre, we've got another VAC...!"

So before I could get a driving licence, I had to get a passport, so I could prove that I was who I said I was, so that the DVLA would release my driving licence number. With me so far? 

This delay in proceedings gave me plenty of time to relive all my driving anxiety which I think may partially stem from the time I lived in America and my boss, Gwyn, and I took his V8 Buick to collect a pickup he'd lent to a friend of Ted Rebel Horse's. The plan was, I'd drive the (automatic) Buick back and he'd drive the manual pickup. Gwyn even threw in a driving lesson on the way. Gwyn was not a patient man. If he told you something once, he expected you to remember it forever. We had to drive along Highway 50, parts of which are basically a cliff on one side and a drop down to the mighty Arkansas River on the other. 

Here is a painting of the experience I made (at the anarchist art collective, the Granary) when attempting to deal with the trauma. That's my fearful face in the rearview mirror! See if you can change the image by switching in your head whether it is the left eye or the right eye being reflected.

Dave my new driving instructor is the polar opposite of Gwyn. His catchphrase is: "That's the gearstick not the clutch." And he seems happy to say that calmly as many times as needed.

Dave has been teaching the drivers of Norwich for so long that the Yellow Pages were still a thing when he started: his company is called '1st Choice Driving Instruction' Which got you a nice early position back in the heyday of analogue listings.

I don't want to get ahead of myself, but I'm putting together a driving playlist. Add your favourites in the comments here or in social media. Here's one to get you started...

Blame it on a backroad