Robyn’s Nest

After approximately eight hours in the car on Saturday it’s fair to say I had a numb bum and a burning right foot. But my work buddy did comment on my “good driving” as we raced down the motorway towards Torquay to carry out some student interviews at one of our degree ceremonies.

This work colleague had never before driven on a motorway which I found highly unusual as it’s where I seem to spend most of my life, particularly between junctions 14 and 21 of the M1. She wouldn’t have been comfortbable driving such a long way and into the unknown, but given the choice between driving or catching a train, it was a no brainer. But I guess driving is different for some than for others, depending on experiences and circumstances.

Growing up in the shire, it was a case of learn to drive or remain stranded. With just two buses a week (slight exaggeration perhaps) driving was a ticket to freedom and I intended on buying mine early. I had my first driving lesson on my 17th birthday (after throwing up courtesy of too many celebratory drinks the night before) and drove everywhere. I drove my mum 30 miles to visit my nan every weekend, I drove my dad around the shire’s country lanes not long after a hefty snowfall and I drove my mum’s friends to the pub on a regular basis. I actually got caught driving my car without an adult by my side once. I was just moving my car from mum’s house to dad’s house (only about 200 metres up the road) and who happened to drive past me? My driving instructor! Whoops.

I ditched my L plates less than three months after my 17th birthday and then I drove EVERYWHERE. Even 100 metres up the road to my waitressing job! I drove my mates to college, I drove to Weston Super Mare (first proper experience of motorways) for a girly weekend and I drove to London regularly to see my then boyfriend. I loved driving!

That’s not to say I didn’t have a few close calls. I hit a motorbike a couple of weeks before I passed my test - his fault, not mine - I had a scrape with a bus while trying to navigate the grimness of West Bromwich, and I scraped a parked car when exiting a shopping centre. I’m only human!

I guess I’ve never been afraid to drive or, more importantly, drive to places I don’t know because I do it so often. And it’s not always a painless process. My first trip to London involved pulling up every two streets or so to consult the A-Z, and a volleyball mate and I couldn’t find our way out of Cambridge after a match and doubled the amount of time it should have taken to get home.

But I do like driving and I do like cars. I’m actually on my ninth car now would you believe it. My worst car being a company car, a scabby Ford Escort to be precise, which did little for my street cred, and my best car being a top of the range Peugeot 307 XSI which cost me so much in fuel I couldn’t afford to drive anywhere and needed constant repairs. Boo!

I think the only thing I don’t like about driving is when the passenger knows where they’re going and you don’t, because they always fail to navigate properly and assume you’ll get in the right lane. Like the time my nan directed me into the fourth lane to the right and then asked me to turn left. Doh!

I also struggle to pay attention as much as I should when I’m chatting. I did go through a phase of looking at the passenger when I was talking to them (in my teenage years you understand) which I grew out of when I realised it was incredibly dangerous. And on Friday I seemed incapable of following a mate’s car because I was so distracted by my passenger’s chit chat. But I am a safe driver, honest!

My favourite drive was when I got to drive a Porsche Carrera, except I had my nan in the passenger seat. Cruising down the High Street for all to see was cool, but not so cool when there’s a granny in the front seat!

A funny thing happened to me yesterday - I managed to get screenwash in my eye and mouth. Random, I know.

I was topping my car up with water, what with the murky weather at the mo, and thought it best to add a touch of screenwash. But as I opened a new bottle of the stuff - this one was pink in true girly style - it managed to shoot everywhere, mostly upwards, and into my eye and mouth.

Thankfully no one saw as I scrambled up the stairs back to my flat, one eye closed and stinging, mascara everywhere and pretty much foaming at the mouth. Screenwash tastes yukky.

After a saline rinse for the eye, a glass of water and a swig of mouthwash I was good to go, but what a random thing to happen! And that screenwash repeated on me all night!