Driving Me Stupid

I often regret not learning to drive when I young and at college. But I probably spent 90% of my student life over the legal alcohol limit to render the notion of driving absurd.
I did drive a bright red sports car when I was 4. It was made of tin, had “Hot Rod” emblazoned on the side, had pedals and needed steering, so I deemed it proper driving – unlike the kids you see today who drive around smugly in vehicles that you can so clearly see are operated by their parents using a long stick on the back to push them around. I hate their arrogant “look at me” attitude. They’re not really driving. They’re fooling no-one.
By 5, I was driving a bus – in as much as I sat astride it and pushed it with my little legs, but I still had to steer and navigate it around the flower-beds in our garden.
I went on to drive many vehicles from police cars to fire engines, until the 10p ran out in the slot outside the arcades.
The nearest I came to drive any proper vehicle was when I took my young son to Diggerland. As his feet couldn’t reach the pedals of the jeep, I was deemed the designated driver.
What ensued could politely be described as “5 minutes of utter chaos” – which would have been “two minutes” had the attraction attendants been able to catch me earlier before demanding that I leave the driving seat and physically manhandle me out of the vehicle for public safety.
They still have some employees off work sick with “Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder.”
But I’ve still never taken up driving, firstly, because I have enough trouble trying to avoid crashing into the chuggers in Maidstone whilst walking at 4mph, so travelling at 30mph terrifies me and secondly, I get easily distracted and don’t want my last words to be “Wow! I see Sports Direct have 50% off trainers!”



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