How naive am I?
I innocently thought that everyone else would feel about taking their driving test like I do, and that this, coupled with Christmas, early onset Winter type darkness and the relentlessy crappy weather, would mean I could waltz onto the website, book the test, and take it tomorrow if I felt like it.
Ha.
The earliest I can do my test is actually February 4th. That’s a Thursday by the way. At 10.14 a.m. So if you’re hanging around Gypsy Lane in Leicester on that day you might actually want to stay indoors, or worry about the state of your mental health. It’s not a very nice area at all. And what you’d be doing there on an almost certainly wet Thursday in February if you didn’t work or live there would be baffling in the extreme.
So, it’s booked.
I was very clever. This time I got Jason to do it, so I didn’t have a little mini spazz whilst filling out forms. Hence no crying. Just a deep seated sense of shock and ‘bloody sodding hellness’ that has yet to dissipate.
It was £65. That’s over a pound a minute. Mind you. They’d have to pay me a hell of a lot more to take someone like me out for an hour, eight hours a day. They’d have to pay me in Anglo Saxon treasure trove, or a Betty’s hamper the size of Rotherham. Something excessive and luxe and maybe then not even worth all the aggro.
I’ve also made another decision. I’m going to go to the doctor and point out that when I went to do my theory test I sweat like a pole cat for several hours and when I sat at the computer, my fingers were trembling so much I had trouble clicking the mouse. This was inconvenient whilst doing the theory test, but as I was unlikely to crash the office I was driving in, not too problematic. It will however be a huge problem sitting behind the wheel of a real car. I want them to prescribe me some backbone, a pound of grit and some good old British pluck that got us through the war. And possibly some French chalk so that I can grip the steering wheel without my hands sliding off into a giant puddle of perspiration. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I’d like to try.
They’ll probably tell me to cut my hair and join the army.
Never did me any harm.
Right. I am going to blot out the enormity of what I have just done by failing to study for my essay and instead cutting myself a huge slice of Waitrose Yule Log and watching the episode of Gavin and Stacey I have saved up for just such traumatic occasions. I am still studying form on Panettone by the way, and have a chocolate one waiting in the wings for testing. I do think however, that the big guns are needed tonight. So Yule Log it is.
Tilly says it’s good, but she’s a novice in such matters. Nine Christmases hardly count in the grand scheme of things. I am training her up, obviously. I cannot have a child of mine failing in any cake related matters. The fact that they can’t do quadratic equations or recognise middle C is not half as traumatic as the fact that they might, God forbid, mix up Battenburg and Angel Cake.
I shall report back.
No comments:
Post a Comment