Himself scares me. I find myself feeling sick. Naturally, I shield my children from the brunt of things, but they have picked up on certain… tensions. I do whatever I can to avoid the wrong circumstances, and yet.... Even the youngest, poor innocent Babe, now looks in fear at her father and says “No Daddy! You not drive! You bad driver! Mummy drive!!”
Out of the mouth of babes, says I.
How has he scared us? Let me count the ways…
1. He tailgates. Stopping distances are for wimps. When I can’t see the license plate of the car in front my foot tends to hit the floor, looking for an imaginary brake. That, apparently, is the same as saying “I don’t trust you.” Well, duh. I don’t. Now back off!
2. He speeds. Whooshing along at triple the speed of sound, gravity forcing the flesh on my face backwards into my bones, sonic booms entertaining the other poor road users, my foot again goes for that imaginary pedal. Except, I might add, when we are going to visit my mother. For some strange unknown reason we crawl along on the way to visit her. Snails overtake us. Anyone would think he was reluctant to go.
3. He refuses to change lanes. Miles of whooshing along, staring in disgust at the two inner lanes, empty of traffic, yet he will. not. move. in. So frustrating. If, perchance, we come across someone else doing the same thing, the inconsiderate moron, Himself will fly around him, overtaking on the slow lanes in disgust.
4. Those inconsiderate morons included, every other road user is a…badwordhere… He swears, gesticulates, pounds the steering wheel. He is the epitome of road rage.
5. He has damaged the car… many cars… in many accidents. He has driven into ditches, swerved to avoid dogs, ran into the back of other cars, had other cars run into him, written off one car and so on.
6. With my daughter in the car, last month, in all that ice and snow, he did doughnuts in the car park. Hand break turns, you know. With my daughter in the car. On ice.
And yet, I rarely criticize him. I generally just do the driving myself, it is safer. Less chance of a row.
So you’d think, wouldn’t you, that when I had my first accident in twenty years of driving… my first tiny bump, an insignificant scratch, barely worth mentioning really… that he would be more supportive?
He is taking great pleasure in taunting me that he, at least, has never had the children in the car when he crashes. He has printed out “The Idiot’s Guide To What To Do In A Crash” and placed a copy under every seat in the car, and in every car in the entire family. He is enjoying every second of my humiliation.
Stupid moronic other driver getting in my way….