Safety first

Driving to work feels like a 90's video game in which I have to get across the land without bumping into anyone and dropping all my magic coins. One day I look forward to being able to do this without hunching over the steering wheel with a gritted jaw. Although, I will never listen to music, or go over 60km an hour, or use fifth gear.

Megan learnt to drive this year too, and swore she'd never have music in her car either. “Too distracting,” she'd declared. “Safety first.”

I was pleased about that. It's nice having a sensible friend like Megan who I don't have to pretend to be cool around. “Right,” I'd said, nodding happily in agreement. "That's us. Safety first.”

The next week Megan pulled up outside my house with Snoop Dogg's 'Bitch Please' blasting from a boombox in the back.

“But you said you'd never have music in the car!” I exclaimed, my little heart pounding in my chest.

“Oh," said Megan. "But...”

“But nothing! What happened to 'safety first'?”

“Look,” she said, giving me a reassuring arm-touch. “I promise I'll never, ever go up to fifth gear...”

My first week without L-plates

Day One: I am terrified
I am terrified: tomorrow I will have to drive 20 kilometres all by myself in a small blue car that I feel I have no control over whatsoever. It doesn't feel like a small blue car, it feels like some kind of... some kind of killing machine! I realise the chances of me murdering somebody have just multiplied considerably. There was no way I could have killed a small child yesterday. This week, I probably will.

Day Two: Yes, still terrified
It occurs to me that I've never been alone in a moving car in my whole life before now, and I suddenly feel a terrible mix of claustrophobia and agoraphobia. At a junction on the N11 I look at the man in the car stopped next to me. Should we acknowledge each other? I wave at him, nervously. He pretends not to see me. The lights change and I stall the engine trying to move off. Twice. I panic as two cars behind me beep their horns.

Day Three: I think I'm getting the hang of this
Oh my god, I think I'm getting the hang of this! It's still terrifying, of course, but it's my third day on the road and I'm alive — and so is everyone else. Could it be that my dream of one day driving Route 66 with a dog called Sorry will come true? I stop at the lights and admire my reflection. Yeah, I'll wear my aviator shades and a dark tan leather jacket, right through the State of Oklahoma. Oh Annie, I say to myself, shaking my head in admiration. You are just so fucking cool. Back on the N11 the lights change and I stall the engine trying to move off. Twice. I panic as three cars behind me beep their horns.

Day Four
Okay, definitely getting the hang of this now.

Day Five: I get clamped
Clamped! Outside my own house! Well, I don't know anything about "parking meters". Everybody knows that when you're the passenger you can leave all that stuff to the driver, letting them feed coins into a machine even though they were only driving you around in the first place because you needed help moving house. And now I'm the driver. This "car ownership" thing is a whole new world.