Driving can be dull, though it’s
best not to ask B what she thinks.
Judging by how wild her eyes get and how white her knuckles are
afterwards, car rides with me are more turbulent than tranquil, more joy-ride
than joyful.
I of course think
everything is going fine, until there is a little squeak from beside me and my
wife’s hands shoot up from the thing they were crushing to cover her
mouth.
It’s understandable really.
B learnt to drive at 18 and has therefore
been driving for REDACTED years.
I
learnt to drive when I was 28, which was a long time after B and so she looks
upon my driving the way a mouse might think about a new neighbourhood cat, an
unwelcome addition to its life that is likely to kill it one day.
 |
| I've told you before. I am not getting into a car with you. |
