Er...You Drive

I learnt to drive this year. However, I don't seem to have got around to actually taking the test, despite the fact that I now do most of the driving, taking advantage of the slightly absurd UK law that with L-Plates and a real driver next to you, you can effectively drive as much as you like.

So why the procrastination? Well, poets don't drive, as is well-known, but that's not it. No, it's because simply by learning how to drive, I have finally laid a particular fear to rest. It goes like this:

I have always feared that when the critical moment came (I imagine it having a poetry-related context; perhaps...er... Dr. Evil has stolen my £100 cheque for a third-placed poem in the Joint Cheshire Libraries Poetry Competition to add to his world domination fund) - as I say, when the moment came when I had to run into the city street, waving my arms then dragging some luckless driver from his seat, I really didn't want to have to slide meekly into the passenger seat whilst asking my glamorous female sidekick to follow Dr. Evil at high speed.

Yes, what I have acquired this year is the ability to commandeer someone else's car. Passing a test scarcely seems necessary.
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