When I turned 17 I couldn't stretch to driving lessons. After all there were alcopops to buy with my paltry (poultry?) earnings from my weekend job at KFC.
Then I moved to London at 21 and bused, tubed, trained and walked everywhere. 'What idiot needs a car in London?' I thought. And then I had a baby and realised that I'm the idiot who needs a car in London. I want to be able to take Samuel out and about to parties and to swimming lessons without contending with long walks in the rain. I want to be able to whizz over to friends' houses without the stress of bumping a buggy around stations and grumping about delayed trains. I want to hop in the car my Dad got for me and head up the M1 to Granny Kate's house whenever the urge takes me.
So today, at the grand old age of 33, I took my first driving lesson. I didn't have a clue what I was doing, of course. When my instructor asked me to indicate left I managed it fine, but when he told me to indicate right, I switched on the windscreen wipers.
It was terrifying! I got home sweaty but elated. Me and Samuel are on the road to freedom.
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