Reach to the heavens and cry out good morning sky! I would do were it not for the ceiling and the cloud cover; that was the gist of the sentence that popped into my head this morning as I walked to the bus stop. It's not the exact wording, which is now lost to time. However, the way I composed it originally was better; sparser, more bathetic, poetic, beauteous, better. It may have been all those things, but time cannot tell – time hides it from me. I didn't note it down, having forgotten my notebook, and now it is gone. I can only fool myself unintentionally into believing I had composed something wonderful, and then perhaps I could shut up about it.
I had an idea, but I forgot it, oooh, what was it, what was it... is a fairly tedious way to conduct a conversation. It's almost up there with the twin giants of tedious conversation: I had this really weird dream last night... and Someone I know (or someone who I know, knows someone who knows someone...) saw a ghost, went to a psychic, did a Ouija board, felt something I can't explain; how do you explain that?... Snore. Not interested. There are real more interesting things out there, and I shouldn't have to listen to the tedious fantastical, nonsensical meanderings of your dreams or ghost stories. Of course I'm too polite to say so in so many words... Oh wait, no I'm not.
Here is the occasionally wonderful Tim Minchin to express similar sentiments to those touched upon in the previous paragraph, and to do so in a way clearer and funnier than I could do if I was a million monkeys with a million iPads:
I think I will never tire of that. I am already tired of his lesser stuff, that fucking dreadful song about dancing bears, for example.
I now keep a notebook with me at all times, unless I forget it obviously. I had a hardback A5 one which I could just about squeeze into the pocket of my work trousers causing and uncomfortable and inconvenient rectangular bulge. I now have a small pile of incredibly flimsy but much more useful 15p-each-from-Wilkinson beauties. I can whip them out and jot a thought or sentence at will. It's tools and tricks like that that will play a deciding in role in the ongoing battle between me not being a writer, and me being a writer. One day victory will be triple underlined in the signed edition of my novel.
Having just returned from my first ever driving lesson I think a cup of tea and some of last night’s beef brisket is in order. Really I ought to have been driving for the best part of ten years, but it never seemed so important. Now it’d be useful for work, family, all the usual, plus I got a voucher for a free two hour lesson for Christmas and it needed using. My provisional license actually runs out this month, so there’s more than a finger needs pulling out to get my arse in gear.
Picked up from Oxford Road station as in the voucher’s small print, we went to a quiet road near Chorlton Road/Stretford Road, and my instructor guided me through DSSSM (?); check the doors are all secured, seat adjusted, steering wheel adjusted, seatbelt on, mirrors adjusted (I can’t remember if that is the right order; the Ss may be wrong). I’ve never seen an adjustable steering wheel and it was cheap thrills all ‘round.
Next I check the gear is in neutral and the handbrake is securely on. He talked me through the functions of the pedals – Accelerator, Brake, Clutch (right>left) – explained checking mirrors and blind spot, using signals, how to position mirrors, how to line up visual aids for parking, a bunch of other things I don’t fully remember. He had the calm methodical and confident manner of a good doctor; a good bedside manner. Eventually we got to pulling out, driving along the road a bit, then pulling over again. Let me see if I can remember it as he taught me:
Engine on. Clutch all the way to floor. Into first gear, then move hand onto handbrake. Accelerator to bring revs up to between 18 and 25. Ease off clutch looking for the bite. Check middle mirror (what’s it called?) looking for anything in environment and also the little jump of the car as the clutch bites. Check mirrors (in some order I can’t remember). Check right blindspot and if safe release handbrake as I turn to face the front. Move out about a metre from the kerb. Left foot off clutch and resting on the floor. Tootle along.
After doing this a couple of times he introduced the gears. Left foot hover on clutch, hand on gear stick. Right foot off accelerator and push clutch to the floor. Move stick into second gear. Ease off clutch, and back onto accelerator. Same drill to get up to third. Now to pull over. Check mirror. If anyone needs signalling, pop on the left indicator. Foot off accelerator. Details a bit hazy at this point... Press clutch all the way in with left foot, and apply easy braking with right foot (I think). Pull into side of road somewhere you’d be happy to leave the car. Handbrake on. Gears in neutral. Feet off pedals. Indicator off. Engine off.
Setting off I stalled once by releasing the clutch too fast; and stopping I stalled once by doing something stupid with the clutch. I think I didn’t depress it properly. First journey went pretty well and I pulled over neatly. Third I messed up the stop by being confused by the gear change and ended up parked about two feet from the kerb. Fifth go and I seemed to get the gears right, and managed to stop nicely close to the pavement. At all points I was wobbling up and down the road, and looking at the pedals more than the road and mirrors.
Škoda Octavia interior
I have a new found amazement at the casual ability of good drivers to manage all this using the automatic function of the lower brain, while the senses and intelligence can focus on negotiating all the obstacles of a busy and unpredictable world. As the instructor took me home he gave a calm blow by blow commentary of all he did: when he checked his mirrors, all the slight adjustments of speed, the pedal actions, the movement of all traffic and pedestrians, and also gave me tips about good driving habits. I look forward to my next lesson.
Postscript:
As I stepped out of the car and walked over to my house, a spotty little teenage oik yelped “I hope you failed”. I replied, “It was a lesson, you can’t fail lessons,” to which he just repeated his original insult. His friend looked more bemused that amused, and we all got on with our lives.
