By now it’s pretty obvious I’m not what you’d call a calm driver. I’m not reckless, but I don’t suffer fools and I have been known to use assertion as an extension of my road presence. I have noticed on occasion my wife will have one hand on the armrest and the other embedded in the dashboard. She might say something like, “What’s your major problem?” And I might say, “Who drives 30 in a 50 zone.? Seriously, who does that?”
She calls it tailgating.
To alleviate this I listen to classical music when I drive. People will ask, “How can you listen to this funeral music?” To which I respond, “It calms me.”
I think it works, although thousands would probably disagree.
Years ago when I was at school, myself and two mates went on a road trip. We were on our P-plates and went to Oberon for a spot of trout fishing. No fish and too cold, we decided to drive back at night. We get stuck behind this slow driving farmer – sleeping chickens, bits of hay dancing in the headlights. Big move, we overtake, roar down the road in our 1960 Ford Falcon fitted with the latest cross-ply tyres, round a few bends and bam, into a ditch. Dark, middle of nowhere, stuck in a ditch. Twenty minutes later the farmer pulls up, straps up the car, pulls us out and we drive off. He never says a thing, didn’t need to, we were three city dickheads who knew it.
When my daughter was learning to drive my wife vetoed any suggestion that I would teach her. She did it. My daughter got her license first go, took my car and demanded that I fill the tank on a regular basis. I agreed, thinking it was a sort of introductory deal, but soon learned this was something that would be forever, or I guess, until I died.
Anyway sometime after, my wife and I had the opportunity to be driven by my daughter. It was scary. More than scary. “I thought you taught her to drive,” I said.
“She drives just like you,” says my wife.
Proud daddy. She does, it must be genetic.
My daughter screams, “They’re doing 30 in a 50 zone! Who does that?”
Keep calm, till next time. LF
