I AM enjoying being a car driver, rather than a miserable bus passenger, on the whole, but I am not sure it has made me more independent.
Yes, I no longer have to walk across a rainy city centre to sit on a steaming bus, listen to other people’s one-sided conversations on their phones, hope that man with the beany, “Frankie Says Relax” T-shirt, and old Kwik Save shopping basket doesn’t sit next to me, and then get off into the rain for the five-minute walk home.
But I have traded one dependency for another. I am now dependent on this car in order to get about the place, and the car is also dependent on me, in what therapists call a toxic co-dependent relationship. It is more of a drain on my resources than Tesco.
And I am also dependent on the car, because it constantly tells me what I should do next, like a micro-managing boss. It tells me when I need to fill the windscreen washer tank, when the tyre pressure is low, that I’ll need to buy petrol soon – not right now, but soon.
This is a big change from a previous car I drove, in which the fuel gauge was not reliable. I had to guess when it needed to be filled, with predictable results. There is nothing quite like the thrill of walking two miles at night while carrying a container of combustible liquid during the two weeks running up to Bonfire Night.
Most usefully, but also dangerously, it tells me how to park.
Previously, I was not bad at parking. I was good at taking into account my environment and judging the size of spaces in relation to my car’s size. I don’t want to brag, but when I failed my first driving test, parking was not the issue.
But my current car has parking sensors which beep as I back into or out of a space, and the closer I am to an obstacle the faster it beeps. However, this is not a gradual process. The increase in frequency is quite abrupt and often terrifying.
It is like the olden days, when you would have to have your passenger get out and guide you into the parking spot, except the beeping is equivalent to “Back a bit… Back a bit… Bit more… Bit…AARGH! OH, SWEET DAWKINS’ POT OF HONEY! YOU’RE ON MY FOOT! YOU’RE KILLING ME! AAARGGGHHH!”
Anyway, all of this is to explain how what happened was not my fault…
I was returning to an open-air car park to pick up my vehicle. It was mostly a free-for-all with regard to where people parked. But I noted, with some interest, that there was a number of traffic cones marking out some spaces, including one fairly close to the rear of my car. I started the engine, and slowly backed up. My parking sensors made no sound, and I’d checked for passers-by, so I was extremely confident…
I heard the crunch before I felt the bump. I can only assume that the conical shape of, well, a cone had eluded the sensors. I exited the car to discover I had driven over a cone, which was now lying on its side, its rectangular base under the car next to the rear wheel.
Oh, I thought. I tried to pull it out, but the base was wedged in place. I could, of course, have lifted the car, but that would have taken two hands, and that is literally the only reason why I had to dismiss that idea.
My brain told me to get back in the car and reverse a little more, which would probably dislodge the cone’s base. I did so. I heard a screech and then another crunch. I had clearly succeeded. So I turned to drive away from the cone.
But the car continued to screech. I got out again and looked at the wheel. The cone had vanished. I looked under the car. There was no sign of it. I closed the driver door. Oh, I thought.
The cone was now lodged firmly in the arch of my front wheel, like a spike on a chariot. I don’t know how. I pulled it. It was my last hope. It was coming, it was coming…
The cone tore away from the base, and, well, I bruised my bottom as a result.
Gingerly and painfully, I sat back in my car, and drove away, over the base. I should have got the bus.