Driving

Yesterday I drove to the art gallery and today I drove from the art gallery all the way home. Actually, that's not quite accurate. Yesterday I drove to the road out the front of the national library, because I was frightened of parking at the gallery, so the husband took over and did the last few hundred yards. Given the horrendous amount of traffic and random small children dashing about the place yesterday I felt I had made the right decision (even if for bad reasons).

The Noodle was most patient and sat in the back quietly, and only made one adverse comment (in which he assumed that I had crushed and killed an innocent bird, rather than asking him if he would like a bird as a pet. Well.)

We are all alive, and I have stopped shaking and I only stalled once (yesterday) and yah boo sucks to the woman behind me who beeped when I was slow taking off at the lights. It Does Not Help.

I think it won't be long until I have all my competencies ticked off (provided I practice my parking more). But my driving instructor makes me feel nervous. He puts his foot on the clutch without telling me, and then I get panicky about starting off because I think the damn clutch is stuck. I asked him, quite nicely, not to, but he can't help himself it seems.

Oh well. I suppose I'll be done with it all soon. Then I can go to the art gallery any damn time I feel like, without it taking an hour and a half to get back home.

(Oh, and we went to see the Degas exhibition. Or Ned Degus, Super Painter, as we like to call him.)