Vol 31 M6
Just curious, is my massive mistake list making you feel slightly superior, your own being less long thus proving once and for all that you are definitively not a moron of my class? I hope so.
This/these mistake(s) take(s) place on the M6 but first I need to let you know that, though my grandma opined that I was a wonderful driver, sadly she was swerving pretty wide of the mark. The stereotype woman driver, I can confidently share, was modelled on my good self.
First off, I can’t go backwards, or more specifically I can engage reverse and travel, but regrettably not to the desired position. I have lived in this house for fourteen years and, at this precise moment, my car is parked half on the drive half on the grass in a mockingly diagonal direction. Perhaps my neighbours laugh.
Predictably then, given my lack of talent, I don’t find motorways agreeable, deficient in those particular brain cells that helpfully compute speed and distance. It was the epitome of nightmares, back in the day when we couldn’t afford two cars, that I was tasked with the unfortunate job of accompanying himself in the car at four in the morning, on 90 minute journeys up the M6 to Preston in order to drive it back down again myself and enjoy its services for the rest of the day.
As this was sending my stress levels cataclysmic, I had cunningly invested in a free audio book innocently entitled The Snowman, intriguing strapline reading ‘a little boy sees footprints which disappear - he will never see his mother again’, for the return journey which, in my winsome world at least, would soothe me serenely back down through the motorway mayhem. Not a chance.
The relentless return journey found me, white-knuckled, shoulders near the ears, grimly ensconced in the inside lane, entombed in a shoddy car, in the dark, in the lashing rain with the driver’s wiperblade flapping about spastically, trapped while the deceitful audio book shrieked mercilessly;
Sh** me! Sh** me! Put your ******s ** ** f****** ****!
and I prayed mightily, through self-pitying tears, that no smart, young motorway cop should appear and pull me over.