I don't know
whether Paul has ever listened to "The Driving Instructor", the
hilarious radio sketch by the American comedian Bob Newhart, but he ought to. Particularly
the bit where the instructor throws himself from the car as Mrs Webb travels
down her driveway at 75mph - in reverse. Paul is my
driving instructor and once a week he puts his life in my hands.
Learning to
drive in Liverpool is …different. The good news is it’s inexpensive, the roads
are wide,
and it’s yet
another excuse to delay handing in that overdue essay. Procrastination at its
best. The bad news is that the only available slots seem to be at 9am – I’m
expecting Ashton to jump out of a bush at any moment and shout “You’ve been
Punk’d!” Honestly. 9am?! – and my fellow drivers on Smithdown Road are
unforgiving to put it
mildly.
My first
driving lesson in Liverpool was less like mid-town suburban America and more
like a scene from Grand Theft Auto.
In Toxteth, the
sun don’t shine and the birds don’t tweet. In other words, rising early is a
challenge. As if scheduling my lessons at the crack of dawn was not punishment
enough, Paul insists on sending reminder texts
before each lesson at an hour which should be made illegal.
Rival
road users on Smithdown, and I use the phrase deliberately, will happily add
insult to injury and should under no circumstances be confronted before
breakfast. They refuse to recognise the learner sign on my bonnet and show no
pity when I stall, which is often. It is not unknown for Paul's car to remain immobile
through several traffic light changes much to the frustration of the men in
white vans getting uncomfortably close to my rear. No pun intended.
Bus
drivers and taxi drivers are, no exaggeration, engaged in guerrilla warfare
with each other. I am prone to road rage, yes, but never have I seen deeper
hatred than when the eyes of delta cabbies meet those of a bus conductor.
Nor
do I need these external distractions from the main task of learning to drive.
I am quite capable of those myself. Tootling along Edge Lane one bright
morning, I spotted some friends on the pavement and got so excited at the
prospect of them seeing me drive that I took both hands off the wheel to wave
ecstatically. Alas, they were oblivious to my hand manoeuvres – unlike Paul who
almost went into cardiac arrest in his efforts to try and stop the car from
knocking down an innocent pedestrian. He’s a real gem.
Sometimes
I wonder why he puts up with me. Paul is
a stand-up guy with infinite patience, enthusiasm and an unusual taste in music
for someone comfortably old enough to be my Dad. On our first encounter, he
rapped and rhymed his way through the lesson: “Step down on the clutch, now
feel the engine bite-ite-ite.....accelerate!” Jesus.
On
our second outing, he turned to me whilst I was cruising along Mossley Hill
Drive and said: “Ellie, guess what my favourite genre of music is?” After a
tedious 2 or 3 minutes of sifting through every genre that I could imagine a 64
year old Top Gear fanatic listening to, Paul couldn’t hold it in anymore:
“House music!” he declared, whipping out Ministry of Sound’s “Deep House”
compilation and cranking it up to full volume in case I didn’t believe him. To
Paul’s dismay, I ejected the CD and explained to him that I really felt I could
concentrate better on clutch control without the beloved beats of Miguel
Campbell blaring through the car. Little did he know, I didn’t want to let
Chamillionaire down.
Despite
my reluctance, I do
relish the thrills of motoring - especially when I get to race over the Runcorn
bridge at 70mph screaming with delight, only for Paul to note dryly that it’s “just an A road” and to “get some
perspective”. Spoil sport.
I am still a
long way from trusting myself behind the wheel alone but who cares if it means
I can spend another 20 or so hours listening to Paul's house music and his
endless backlog of anecdotes about past clients and his, how can I put it,
imaginative ways of making sure they always pay up. I have made sure to pay for
my lessons in advance. After all, my body is a temple as you have probably
gleaned from my previous articles.
As Bob Newhart
observed, Paul belongs to a special group of (mostly) men, who go out to work
each morning facing death in a hundred different ways and never quite knowing
whether they will return in the evening. I want him to know he is safe with me.
But I must confess, the dual controls in his little Honda are a big comfort to
the both of us.
No comments:
Post a Comment