I passed my driving test first time
at 17 and, in a slightly cocky manner, have always considered myself a damn good
driver. I am probably delusional, but back up this assumption with the fact
that I have never had an accident that has been directly my fault and, until I
arrived in California, had a clean license. I adore driving and drive pretty
fast, particularly navigating the narrow, windy country roads in the beautiful
south of England where I grew up. Thinking back, I suspect I often used to
leave home late so I would need to drive extra fast to make it to where I was
going on time (I like to be punctual). It would get my adrenalin pumping and I
would arrive feeling more alive, having successfully mastered hairpin bends at
70mph and overtaken every pork-pie-hat-wearing old dear driving at a snail’s
pace on the way!
That was all well and good in
England where the local police have better things to do than lie in wait,
hiding on street corners ready to jump out and attack like angry Cobras at any
moment. In California, it didn’t work so well. In the first three years of
living in the sleepy northern Californian town of Novato I managed to rack up
four tickets! Yes, FOUR! Even my husband was shocked.
My first ticket I hold my hands up
and say I deserved it. I was driving our two daughters to school and,
surprisingly, we were running a bit late. All their fault, of course. Speeding
down a residential road near to their school I was shocked to see the blue and
red flashing lights in my rear view mirror and mortified to be on full view of
all the other parents as they passed by at exactly the speed limit looking
jolly smug. A big burly police officer wearing a gun forbade me from leaving my
vehicle while he officially wrote me up for a ticket, leaving me thinking I had
committed a crime more akin to child abuse. I had to pay $250 for the pleasure. My husband suggesting I take traffic school to avoid high insurance penalties, so I chose Comedy Driving School, thinking it might be fun. Thus
followed eight excruciatingly boring hours, where the instructor
told one pathetic joke at the beginning and that was it. I should have sued.
My second ticket was for not coming
to a complete stop when turning right on a red light. Jeez, no-one does. I
didn’t even know that was a rule. It was St Patrick’s Day and I had been out to
lunch with a friend. We tried everything to stop the cute motorcycle cop writing
that damn ticket. We flirted outrageously, offered him our bodies and even discussed
the colour of his underwear - green, apparently! The cop told us that we were the funniest people he had stopped in a long time,
mentioned I was not driving dangerously, but STILL handed me the bloody ticket.
Because it was immediately following my previous ticket, that one cost me a
wopping $450! I did community service at $10/hour this time and the humane
society were sad to see me go. I wasn’t. There is only so much folding laundry
and cleaning floors you can take and 45 hours was long enough, thank you.
My next ticket was for speeding again, not a lot and nothing dangerous, but I still hadn’t learned my lesson. It was not until the fourth ticket, awarded for going down a hill too fast into San Francisco, that I finally gave in. When in Rome and all that. No more speeding. I now drive like a law-abiding grandmother. I practice invisible driving, making sure I tuck myself between two other cars on the freeway and not accelerating obviously. Much as I hate to admit it, driving more slowly has probably made me a better and more considerate driver. I no longer drive like a bat of hell. I am calmer and actually allow more time for my journeys.I am sure my stress levels have dropped as a result and I notice that my passengers no longer grip their seat like their life depended upon it.
The other day I even caught myself looking longingly at a pork pie hat.
