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|My wife's ideal form of road transport.|
Yesterday, in Lishman's car park, I managed to drive my car into the wall. Not heavily, there is only a tiny scratch, but this is the sort of thing you're supposed to when you're 73, not 43. It isn't that I'm a dreadful driver, well, not compared to half the inhabitants of Ilkley anyway. You only have to stand on the roadside in the morning and see the amount of Ilkley Mums who drive their offspring to school one handed whilst chattering away on their mobile phones to see that my driving failures are at least accidental as opposed to suicidal.
On the whole though, there is very little to recommend driving. No matter what car you buy because the telly advert showed it swishing along, you still end up in an almost endless queue of traffic wherever you go, and if you do get to a part of the road that seems clear enough for you to move up the 4th gear, you can pretty much guarantee that a speed camera will stop you quick flash.
I know blokes are supposed to love cars, and it's sort of manly to be able to hold your own in a discussion about twin manifold, er, thingies, you know, engine bits. The honest truth is though, I have no interest in my car at all beyond the fact it can transport me from point a to point b. I know what colour my car is, I know it is a Ford Zetec, I can't remember the registration, I have no clear idea of the engine size, road tax bracket, emissions category or any other technical stuff. More importantly, I don't want to know, I have my wife for all that complex stuff.
Mrs YS is just the opposite, she loves to drive, get her a big car and she'll happily drive all day. This worked perfectly on our driving holiday in the US a couple of years ago, Meg got to drive the rented Chrysler Land Leviathan all day, whilst I got to do something I get equal pleasure from, sitting down and reading a book all day and occasionally taking photos out the car window.
Meg is mildly disappointed that in South Africa we have been forced to rent a vehicle slightly smaller than a Centurion tank, but still, if it comes down to a difficult moment on the road between a bull elephant and my personal chauffeur, I just tell the pachyderm that it may as well move on right now. Because my wife is that sort of driver, and she won't giving way.