At the tender age of 17 one of my many ambitions was to pass my driving test. I couldn’t wait till the big day I turned that magic number and I could hit the road, which I perceived to be, the ultimate in independence. On the day of my 17th birthday I found myself booked into a lesson, cash burning a hole in my pocket and my nerves jangling. Little did I know at that point it would take me many more years, handfuls of cash and 7 failed tests before passing on the 8th attempt to legally be independent on the road! Never the less that day finally arrived one cold November morning and I was as free as a bird. I remember walking home feeling like I had no worries in the world, wondering what I could do with the money I would have, now I didn’t have to pay for lessons or tests. Two weeks later I had my hot little paws on my first car and an empty bank account from purchasing a high prioritised Dolce & Gabbana key ring to put the keys on. The open road called and off I went, Cascada blasting (what?! It was the early noughties!!) If only things had stayed that simple......
Fast forward several years later and I’m a little less naive about the world of cars, my enthusiasm for the open road has also dwindled somewhat. To those who know me I do appear more than a little cursed when it comes to cars and driving so it’s no surprise I’m a chronic sufferer of car hypochondria. When it takes 8 attempts to pass your test, maybe destiny is saying you shouldn’t be on the road! Every rumble, squeak and groan my car makes sends me instantly into a state of panic that something has broken, dollar signs flash before my eyes and my chest tightens with anxiety. I also shamefully spend my time not gazing at the road but at the dashboard for tell tale warning lights to click on.
Most of the time I must admit my car hypochondria is all in my head but on the occasions it actually isn’t a quick call to the AA hosts a whole new set of issues occur and high lights my complete lack of car knowledge. Simple requests like ‘pop the bonnet love’ and ‘what’s the engine size’ send me into a state of panic. Shamefully I have no idea and it’s quite a skill to look as though I’m carefully thinking of my response, whilst trying to quickly text the boy who is a fountain of such knowledge. Not a moment Emmeline Pankhurst would have been proud of. One such time found me stood on the drive in my 4 inch heels, perfect mani/pedi and bottom lip trembling. Mr AA asked me to help him steer my car into the right position. After trying to steer whilst the PAS was inactive and getting nowhere, Mr AA looked me up and down and asked if my boyfriend was in. ‘No’ I replied through gritted teeth, ‘he isn’t’. Smug man 1 – Girl Power 0.
The other big issue I have with driving is the petrol station. What an event! I, as many other girls, have sustained broken nails, stained clothing (the irony of spilling petrol on my Diesel jeans still isn’t funny to me!) and general humiliation as I struggle to get the petrol cap off without dropping it. Next comes the constant battle with my will power as you go to pay and find a selection of chocolate and crisps just politely sat by the till. You can hear them whisper, buy me, eat me, you know you want me, NOOOOO!! My wise friend Miss K suggested to me earlier this week that all petrol stations should be manned by hunky men who would spare you the petrol station horror and fill your car for you. Brilliant idea Miss K, get writing to BP!
Aside from the headaches cars can give us to women, these little cans on wheels can be an extension of not just ourselves but our living space. We are as women are secretly quite attached to our bundles of steel. Myself and several friends admit to naming our cars, I have another friend who spends every Sunday lovingly washing and cleaning her car. They are after all great places to hide those secret purchases you made in the sale, stashing empty chocolate bar wrappers you would like to forget you had consumed and it is conveniently big enough to store an outfit change, make up, bottled water, a small snack and hair strengtheners all in the boot. In your metal world you are the master of the stereo, controller of the heating and navigator of your own journey. Just for the short time ladies we really are Queen of the road, Emmeline would be proud! xX
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