It's finally over kids. No more crying on the drive home, as I delicately work my way through all the swear words I know in front of my aghast instructor. No more dry retching. No more old man in a yellow jacket plaguing my nightmares. No more, eat a banana for a burst of energy, put on my driving trainers, fasten my good luck necklace, can you read me that number plate?
There's just me, and my little tangerine friend, bumping into curbs, clipping wing mirrors, forgetting to indicate. Oh the joy.
It turns out I'm really good at driving. It turns out I'm really bad at parking. Everything's going to be A-ok.
I've also taken up a few new hobbies to fill the gap. I tidied up the flower beds in the sunshine, careful not to disturb the flowers. Then Ginger Beard told me the flowers were nettles. I kicked the nettles for their cunning deceit. I was wearing flip flops. I will not be gardening again.
I decided to make a big, artistic collage. Spent two hours running tests on the printer, and dropping it from various heights. Turns out, and this is rare, it's just out of ink. Have no spare ink. Decide not to be artist.
Try to become a cleaner. Cleaning too hard.
Decided to stop being Casper, and work on my tan. Sat on a hill and took my shoes off. Got called a slut by three chavs. Put shoes back on.
Also realised that I pretty much owe everyone I know a lift. I will practice not killing myself first, and get back to you.
What I am going to do, fo sho, is get back to that small, subservient dream of mine. Messing about with words and shit. Trying to become the next J K Rowling, without all the initial poverty. But first, I'm going to start training to become an accountant. I know, I do hate myself for being so predictable.
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