Marianne Talbot When I was 17, like everyone else, I wanted driving lessons. This desire waned significantly when dad came over all portentous: “I’ll teach you to drive” he said, “as soon as you demonstrate you know how an engine works”.
This is not what a 17-year-old girl wants to hear.
It got worse when dad decided to instruct me himself. He was never going to be content with my knowing where to put the antifreeze and how to check the oil. He was an engineer. He loved engines. He was going for the full monty.
Mum was more amenable. “Huh,” she snorted, on hearing what dad had said, “Perhaps I should tell him he can eat supper when he demonstrates he knows how to cook it?”
So mum took me out in her car. It wasn’t a success. Driving back from church one Sunday, I took a corner too quickly and nearly hit another car. Mum made me stop, smoked a whole cigarette, and insisted we swap places. She never took me out again.
Since then I have lived only in places where cars are a liability, and I have never had children. I have managed to get to 53, therefore, without learning to drive.
But suddenly things are different. After five years of caring for mum, she has gone into a home. I am free to do anything I want. And what I want is something that will stop me thinking of myself as a carer. I want out of the comfort zone I have built up over five years of responsibility.
So a friend and I did a brainstorm. I suggested taking a house in Croatia for a year. It would have a swimming pool and be big enough for friends to stay. Work isn’t a problem, I can do that anywhere, and I should so love to spend a year in the sun!
Then Joanna, who thought this a wonderful idea, suggested we drive there. “But”, she added, “you would have to drive too, I’m not doing it all by myself”.
The seed was planted. The following week it took root. Why not? I thought. So I booked a series of lessons.
Yesterday I had my 9th two-hour session. My instructor had me driving around the ring road at 60mph. My heart was beating very fast. (It’s possible his was beating faster!) I didn’t like doing 60, but afterwards 30 seemed too slow. Perhaps I’m going to be a girl racer?
The important thing, though, is that I am loving it! And there’s no doubt that, as I hang onto the steering wheel for dear life, I am not thinking of anything to do with caring!