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You might not know this, but I can’t drive.
I get driven.
Absolutely everywhere.
In my defence, I’m very good at being driven around. I scream loudly and usually correctly when giving directions, I rarely pull the hand-break when going around corners anymore, and I’ve been known to wear my seat belt after only a dozen times of asking.
These are the habits I’ve picked up from a lifetime being shepherded around by whoever had the car keys in the house. That bastard metal beast was my white whale when I stayed on the shore. I just never needed to drive.
Well…
That’s a fuken lie.
There were many times I should have been driving, but I was far too terrified to take the leap.
Instead, I relied on the bus, or my aching feet in the dead of winter, chewing coal to stave off the cold and hunger. Mostly though, I relied on anyone and everyone unfortunate enough to suffer my pleading.
Really.
I was shocking.
In fact, some say if you listen quietly, you can still hear the echoes of my begging in the wind in any and many of my former homes…
“Come on dad, get out of that bed. That cough is put on. Sure you aren’t sick at all. It’s raining like fuk out there and my hair is looking deadly spiked and I don’t want it ruined before Katies” (a rough local tavern in bray from yesteryear. Terrible beer, high likelihood of getting beaten up but a decent place to get an auld shift with a bird ( a kiss from a lady)).
Usually, after the trip to Katies when I ran out of beer money having discovered the talent was woeful (no ladies fell for my charms.) I would stumble to the nearest payphone and plead for a lift.
“Hiya Mam…no…I’m not drunk… no… I’m definitely not drunk… that’s how I always sound… anyway… giz (Common slang for give and us placed together) a lift, will you?"
Frequently, there was an add on.
“Sure we can stop off and get some chips (fries) on the way home, yeah?... no… honestly, I’m not that drunk…. Em…does Dad want chips? (Still Fries) ... Yeah, he gave me a lift earlier. He deserves some chips (Fries again.)… ooh… bring your credit card, will you?”
So yeah, this went on as the years passed and when they argued that I should learn to drive, I countered all smooth as spit.
“Not today lads, I’ve a really bad headache. I don’t want to be sitting behind the wheel.”
Or.
“Remember Dave? Dave learned to drive. Now he’s dead. From driving. You don’t want that happening right?”
The excuses became more elaborate as time went on.
“I play way too much Grand Theft Auto, sure I’ll hop in the car and accidentally go hunting the public” (fairly certain I read a story in The Herald suggesting this was a genuine concern for young gamer/ drivers going after Hare Krishnas at one point, just like in GTA).
Or
“Why ever would I learn to drive now? Sure it’s the millennium and the cars are going to rise up and eat us all anyway.” (A genuine Y2K concern at the time.)
After a time, the excuses just spilled out of my mouth without much thought.
From
“97% of driving instructors have heart attacks giving lessons to young drivers, let’s not take the chance.”
To
“I can’t drive, that fuken pigeon was looking at me weirdly. Look at him. The prick. I swear it’s an omen.”
Until I just fell upon a golden excuse that became my mantra for 14 years.
“I’ll probably have a go tomorrow.”
Through my teens, into my twenties….and then much later after that, I found the best and weakest reasons not to drive, not to climb above the certainty that I’d somehow end up spinning off a cliff and plummeting to a fiery doom into the ocean below where sharks would eat me.
And then all my wishes were answered.
I found a Jan.
And I recommend everyone find a Jan because Jan’s are great.
They drive you everywhere!!!!
Well, mine does.
But not anymore.
Because we moved to the middle of nowhere.
Fuken miles from the nearest shop.
Nearest pub.
Nearest anything really.
And Jan has had enough.
And knows me far too well.
She took me aside a few weeks ago and told me it was “fine that you can’t drive.”
More than that, she said “I didn’t think you would make a good driver,” so I “don’t even need to learn.”
She patted me gently on the head and whispered “Why bother trying, my wonderfully talented writer husband.”
What a masterful genius.
Because I took it personally.
So I’m learning to drive. I’m ancient years of age and I’m finally doing it!
FUK YEAH!!!!!
So, my wonderful sycophants, why am I telling you all this?
Especially when I could be telling you all about the new awesome book?
Well, this email is all about offering a gentle reminder that it is never too late to just have a go at doing something you never thought yourself capable of.
I’ve had incredible moments that I conquered the literary world and somehow made the landing on an awesome series without fuking it up, but I was still too afraid to trust myself behind the wheel. Despite what you guys have come to realise, I am only human.
(I’m just better at it.)
In truth, as I struggled with the simple motions of gear changes, and where the fuken wipers buttons went, (Like really, it’s a stupid placement,) I was mightily embarrassed it took me this long to get my shit together, but really, I’m so fuken proud that I am doing it.
SUPER FUK YEAH!!!!!!!
Of course, I am still terrified of a fiery chasm and prick sharks with daggers and guns and bad reviews waiting below just ready to fuk me up, but I take that fear and just keep going.
In fourth gear.
And without my foot hovering over the clutch.
Some of the time.
It has been a wonderful experience to climb out of my cage and really make a break for it.
And, as a bonus, I get to scare the shit out of Jan with my wonderful “Rob manoeuvres,” as she calls them and that’s kind of fun as well.
Anyway, what else?
Oh yeah...
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