I got into trouble at the weekend. Perran is driving my little beat-up Fiesta again after a long hiatus in lessons. Admirably, whenever we have a journey to go on, he volunteers to drive. I’ve had the brakes overhauled, so I know my car will get him there – it’s just my nerves that won’t.
On Sunday, Nigel sat in the front beside Perran; Carenza and me in the back. Perran drove confidently and fast – right up to the speed limit, as is now recommended practice. I, however, failed as a passenger on several major counts.
My right foot was constantly pedalling at a non-existent brake and Perran clearly found my behaviour extremely irritating.
“Mum, was that a suppressed scream?”
“At least give me some credit for trying to suppress it.”
“Mum, are you clawing at the door?”
“No, no. It was just my cuff buttons scratching against it.”
Nigel turned round and gave me a death stare.
Carenza tried diplomatically to distract me from whimpering by showing me the photos on her mobile, but it was hard for her to flick through them as I was clutching her arm so tightly.
When we reached our destination, I said,
“Well, Perran’s had plenty of practice this weekend – what about you driving back, Carenza?”
“Mmm. I’m not sure I’m quite ready for that yet.”