Poor Andy and Driving in My Car

Andy has been afflicted with a bug. One of those winter vomiting norovirus jobbies. He actually had a day off work yesterday which is only the second day he's been off sick in the eight and a bit years I've known him. And the other time was when he got bitten by a dog and he was operating the next day (Andy, not the dog; that would be stupid) and couldn't because his hand was all done up in bandages like the Mummy's Revenge.

So because Andy was confined to barracks yesterday, I got to take the car to work. I said, 'I'll take the car and pop into Sainsbugs on the way home and pick up some shopping.'

'Bleuch,' said Andy, or words to that effect.

Anyway, I left him to sleep, and drove to work.

At this point I need to tell you about my relationship with driving. I actually learnt the basics when I was 14 in an old transit van that my brother and I used to bomb around the farm in. We were allowed to take the van up the fruit fields during the summer and collect the raspberries, gooseberries, blackberries and redcurrants that had been picked during the day, and bring them back to the packhouse to be weighed and prepared for market. Of course, we never managed to get beyond second or third gear, but it was all practice and we tried our best not to send trays of fruit ricocheting hither and thither.

And about the same time our Mum became a driving instructor. So we also got to practise changing gear and working clutches and brakes using the dual controls in her driving school car, albeit back to front from the passenger seat. As Mum drove along she would shout, 'NOW!' and we got to depress the clutch and change gear.

Then, as soon as I was 17, Mum took me out every evening for a driving lesson. I learnt to drive in the dark, being a November baby. And seven months and three diving tests later, I earned my full licence and was presented with a clapped out Mini 850 which managed to blow its head gasket on its first trip out. (I also have embarrassing memories of being overtaken in that Mini by a group of cyclists when negotiating a particularly steep hill and forgetting to change down gear soon after passing my test.)

After that it was a black Mini Metro which I bought (without taking for a test drive) purely on the basis that it was black. And then there was yellow Astra estate which I hated with all my heart, a blue Rover 400 which took to cutting out at 40 + miles per hour due to some weird electrical fault, then a brand new Toyota Corolla (white) which was fab. Chris was 7 years old when I had that car; the first time I took him and Heather out for a drive in it, he managed to vomit most of his Weetabix breakfast up on the back seat.

Then came my divorce and I swapped the Corolla for a metallic blue Fiat Bravo, purely because it was metallic blue and the ex-husband said one must NEVER buy a car with metallic paint. I think I also went a bit mad with red shoes at the same time for much the same reason.

The Fiat was eventually traded in to get money to buy the Eglu and the chickens. We had a Citroen Picasso by then, and we still have, and at 6 years old it is starting to show signs of strain but has been a darned good motor especially since we became allotmenteers and have needed a substantial vehicle in which to transport vast quantities of veg, seedlings and manure.

And all through the 27 years of my driving career, I have hated every moment of driving. I drive because I can and because I sometimes need to get from A to B. I don't understand people who say, 'Oooh, I love driving, me.' I don't understand people who say, 'Let's go out for a drive, just for the sheer hell of it. ' My Dad was a great one for doing this, but then he loved cars.

But yesterday, when poor Andy was being poorly, and I had the car, I quite enjoyed pootling through town and stopping off for a spot of shopping. P'raps it's time to get a little runaround, I thought.

Or perhaps I just enjoyed coming home from work without being rained on for once.