I like driving in my car, almost as much as I like tor-char.

Some of you may know that I am learning to drive. Others of you will have known this sometime in the distant past, forgotten it and re-learned it. It is taking me a long time. I am not the world's most confident driver. People think this is insane, since I've been cycling on the roads for 20 years now. That's roads including BIRMINGHAM. But bizarrely, I feel safer perched precariously atop a scarcely-visible piece of lightweight metal than strapped in behind the wheel of a two ton box. My sense of unease has not been helped by the fact that I've had FOUR instructors. So far. In a year and a half. The roll of honour..........

1) Julie.
Her driving school was called 'corse 'u' kan' or some similar abomination against the English language. Her tan made Dale Winton look like an albino and her voice was akin to the sound of screeching brakes. After a few weeks with me, she told me that she had a rare blood disorder and was going on long term sick leave. My piano teacher had said a similar thing to me when I was ten, and it was a lie. She'd continued to teach all her other pupils. As did Julie.

2) Adam.
Repelled by the rank amateurism of 'Kors' u!cann', I went to BSM. They dumped me with Adam, a 15 year old (or thereabouts) boy who kept banging his head off the glove compartment, edging towards the passenger door and once told me that my shitness in gear changing was due to my not having the correct brand of hideously expensive sports shoes. He also managed to convince me I had some kind of co-ordination problem. As had, I might add, my piano teacher when I was ten.

3) Paul.
I phoned BSM to tell them I was going to give up and sell myself and my malformed limbs to a travelling circus. Or something. They suggested I try another instructor. Perhaps one who was qualified! Paul was qualified. He was also very, very nice, reassured me that if I wrote off his car he would get another one from BSM and claimed to be 28 years old when he looked older than my Dad (but with peroxided hair) Then he fucked off to Leeds for a better job.

4) John.
Tonight I had my first lesson with John. Within ten minutes I cried on him. Possibly not a good sign, but he didn't say anything about blood disorders or dyspraxia, so who knows. He says he'll come back again next week. Maybe I will be able to drive soon!

Which is ironic, as the job I'm just about to start involves dissuading people from driving their kids to school and promoting cycling. As usual, my timing is impeccable!