Blogs
Fletch's Thoughts
A blog from the Waterfront's Kate Fletcher.
The passenger
- 04 May 2007 18:00
I've just been deposited safely back in Winchester, after a stressful and, I must say rather traumatic, journey from Swansea.
My mum's partner notices my white face as I walk through the door.
"Four hours in the car with your mother," He nods in sympathy, "Need a drink?"
It's provoked me to think that I really, really, need to save up for my own car. When my mother kindly, albeit reluctantly, offers to pick me up from Swansea and bring me back for the holidays, I'm always grateful. It's less hassle than the train. I can pack more. But emotionally? What a turmoil. I think my nerves are damaged beyond repair.
How the woman ever obtained her license is beyond me. All I can say is that she took her test in the 70's. The examiner was probably high at the time. Or maybe it was in some way down to my grandma who apparently used to run a taxi service for the local policemen, whilst none of them ever knew she didn't actually possess a license. As they all knew her, they'd never pull her over. Cunning, that's what that is. I'd put money on my mother not passing again now.
- She drives in third gear on the M4.
- I get whiplash every time we stop at a red light.
- She hovers between the outside lane and the middle one as if she's not sure which lane she belongs in, and then wonders why she gets cross looks from overtaking drivers.
We lag two hundred yards behind the other traffic as the lights change because she 'can't get it in gear', and - oh god here it is - some guy with a death wish blasts his horn. I sink lower into my seat and hide behind my sunglasses as my mother purses her lips and thumps the steering wheel (because clearly, it is the steering wheels fault.)
We spend three and a half hours alternating between snapping at each other about which way to go (I refuse to open the map because it will make me feel sick, she has no sense of direction and before I know it we're on our way to North Wales - then she has the cheek to say "I think we've taken a wrong turn." We? WE?) and angry silence listening to David Gray (the only 'modern' music she'll play).
Being a passenger in a car with my mother is quite possibly as stressful as sitting your own driving test, or even single-handedly entering into battle with the Korean army. Your life is in their hands.
And yes, I do only call her 'my mother' when she's behaved truly awful.
My Great-Aunt, who's a fair way into her 80's now, is equally as bad a driver, but in her case it's more her safety I worry about, instead of her passengers. How she hasn't had more crashes I do not know. She manages to get through cars like Calum Best gets through girls, all because she spends the entire time driving with the clutch down. She just breezes along, whilst you stare down at her foot in wide-eyed terror.
I don't pretend to be a great driver myself. Not owning a car, I haven't had the practice. I don't pretend to know that much about cars and the way they work. Despite dating a mechanic for over a year, I would have no idea how to begin changing a tyre.
Am I trying to make a valid point?
That drivers should have refresher tests every few years perhaps?
Well, it's an idea, but no, because then, in the absence of my own car, I'd be forced to get the train or bus all the time.
And public transport? Don't even get me started.
Kate Fletcher