Friends have been commenting that I have been looking slightly pale of late. Having inherited what my mother terms her ‘high colouring’ this is not necessarily a bad thing.
Maybe I could aspire to being Shropshire’s answer to Dita Von Teese, the burlesque star whose porcelain complexion has only added to her success.
Vanessa Lloyd Thomas.
But it can be pretty draughty round the Wrekin at this time of year, and would I really want to dance around on stage in my undies representing Germany in the Eurovision Song Contest, as Dita did this year?
Perhaps not.
The reason I am temporarily blanched is that number-one son has recently turned 17 years old.
It’s not realisation that I’m now old enough to be mum to an almost-man that has sent me into shock, or even the cost of the old banger sitting proudly in the middle of our drive. It’s not even the cost of the insurance for a provisional driver – hysteria yes, but shock and surprise no.
What has turned me a whiter shade of pale is venturing into the aptly named suicide seat and accompanying my son on his practice runs around the county’s highways and byways.
How I came to get the job remains a mystery. In the build up to the birthday, Tomwas running an unofficial poll on which member of the family would be the best driving instructor.
My apparent short fuse landed me at the bottom of the pile, far down the list from ‘nanny, who is really kind’, laid-back husband and anyone else who happened to be visiting on that day.
Funnily enough, when the provisional licence plopped onto the doormat kindnanny and laid-back husband had other important things to do – perhaps revealing why they find it so easy to be kind and laid-back – and I was the only option.
An L of a responsibility.
“Just don’t shout,” said Tom, having coaxed me into the car. Wouldn’t dream of it, model of self control, I thought as we pulled away into the lanes behind the house.
“And clutch and gently brake, excellent darling,” I enthused sweetly as we bunny-hopped around the block in first gear only. All was going swimmingly well until we approached the T-junction where darling clutched and braked, before lifting his trainer-clad foot off the brake and rolling across the junction into the hedge.
Apologise
You can guess the rest. I shouted. I screamed. I grabbed the handbrake with both hands and we stopped. Teenager jumped out and ran away leaving me to apologise to a farmer in a truck who’d managed a pretty impressive emergency stop, and reverse the banger back off the junction.
Since then I’ve handed over to a lovely driving instructor who has infinite patience and a dual-control car, and Tom’s driving has come on in leaps and bounds. I still find it quite terrifying to sit in with him on his daily practice runs, but that is more to do with other road users than my own learner-driver.
Recently we’ve been honked at for not pulling away the instant traffic lights changed, overtaken on corners, and buzzed on roundabouts. What do these idiots think the ‘L’ on the plates stands for – ‘Let ’em have it’ perhaps?
Anyway my apparent short fuse and shouting have now come into their own and I’m having a high old time issuing useful tips and instructions to the other road users who have long forgotten their Highway Code along with their manners. It’s amazing how quickly they drop back from your bumper when you gesture sweetly!
Testing times for a motoring mum
Vanessa goes off-road when she’d rather not
Friends have been commenting that I have been looking slightly pale of late. Having inherited what my mother terms her ‘high colouring’ this is not necessarily a bad thing.
Maybe I could aspire to being Shropshire’s answer to Dita Von Teese, the burlesque star whose porcelain complexion has only added to her success.
But it can be pretty draughty round the Wrekin at this time of year, and would I really want to dance around on stage in my undies representing Germany in the Eurovision Song Contest, as Dita did this year?
Perhaps not.
The reason I am temporarily blanched is that number-one son has recently turned 17 years old.
It’s not realisation that I’m now old enough to be mum to an almost-man that has sent me into shock, or even the cost of the old banger sitting proudly in the middle of our drive. It’s not even the cost of the insurance for a provisional driver – hysteria yes, but shock and surprise no.
What has turned me a whiter shade of pale is venturing into the aptly named suicide seat and accompanying my son on his practice runs around the county’s highways and byways.
How I came to get the job remains a mystery. In the build up to the birthday, Tom was running an unofficial poll on which member of the family would be the best driving instructor.
My apparent short fuse landed me at the bottom of the pile, far down the list from ‘nanny, who is really kind’, laid-back husband and anyone else who happened to be visiting on that day.
Funnily enough, when the provisional licence plopped onto the doormat kind nanny and laid-back husband had other important things to do – perhaps revealing why they find it so easy to be kind and laid-back – and I was the only option.
“Just don’t shout,” said Tom, having coaxed me into the car. Wouldn’t dream of it, model of self control, I thought as we pulled away into the lanes behind the house.
“And clutch and gently brake, excellent darling,” I enthused sweetly as we bunny-hopped around the block in first gear only. All was going swimmingly well until we approached the T-junction where darling clutched and braked, before lifting his trainer-clad foot off the brake and rolling across the junction into the hedge.
Apologise
You can guess the rest. I shouted. I screamed. I grabbed the handbrake with both hands and we stopped. Teenager jumped out and ran away leaving me to apologise to a farmer in a truck who’d managed a pretty impressive emergency stop, and reverse the banger back off the junction.
Since then I’ve handed over to a lovely driving instructor who has infinite patience and a dual-control car, and Tom’s driving has come on in leaps and bounds. I still find it quite terrifying to sit in with him on his daily practice runs, but that is more to do with other road users than my own learner-driver.
Recently we’ve been honked at for not pulling away the instant traffic lights changed, overtaken on corners, and buzzed on roundabouts. What do these idiots think the ‘L’ on the plates stands for – ‘Let ’em have it’ perhaps?
Anyway my apparent short fuse and shouting have now come into their own and I’m having a high old time issuing useful tips and instructions to the other road users who have long forgotten their Highway Code along with their manners. It’s amazing how quickly they drop back from your bumper when you gesture sweetly!
Tagged under comment, ladies first, Vanessa.
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