She’s a maniac…


That’s mostly untrue, but entirely designed to get that annoying Flashdance song into my brain for-EVAH. Because who doesn’t have time for an earworm or two? And at least it might get a) Muse and b) Florence and the Machine, who are currently duking it out in some unholy mash-up in my slowly fizzling neural pathways.

But the other, like, maniac thing is because if I say it, it won’t be true. I won’t be a maniac tomorrow, at around 9.30, when I get into the car on what for me, for many years, has been the Wrong Side. Cos I is having a driving lesson. I know how to drive. I KNEW how to drive. But then I didn’t do it for about 50 billion years and I got scared and trucks got bigger and the pennyfarthing was invented and men with flags stopped walking in front of horseless carriages any more and, well, it’s beginning to get to me. So there I’ll be, white-knuckled (though prolly not as scared as other road – and indeed pavement – users would be if they had half a clue) and making stupid jokes, because I always make jokes when I’m nervous. 

I mean, I’ve passed my test, but I’m having a refresher lesson. Like the big thick kid in the class who can’t fit their big thick legs under the titchy desk any more because they’re five years too old. Mind you, I was walking up the road this morning and heard a plane taking off. Except it turned out to be a learner, accompanied by an instructor with a strained expression, a learner who hadn’t quite sorted out the bite point so was just revving the bollocks off the engine and progressing at somewhat less then 15 mph. That gave me comfort, but it doesn’t mean I’ll be much better. So. Half nine: get in the car; half ten: wash the blood off the bumper.


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