On my 16th Birthday, I went with my mum to the RTA to sit for my Learners Permit. And everyone was surprised when I got it first try. I mean everyone apart from me, as I had the handbook under my jumper.
And thus began the expensive and often nerve-wracking journey on me getting my licence. It is not until now that I realised my parents had a vested interest in me getting my licence. That being me legally able to deliver and collect them from various social engagements so they could get on the razz.
Mum put her hand up to teach me, but after 15 minutes of hysterical screaming, she drove the car home and my stepdad took over. My stepdad is a saint, with the patience of one. Nothing can fluster that man, not even a 16 year old girl with a terrible attitude. We bunny-hopped for hours around deserted country roads. I remember crying a lot. I remember getting whiplashed. And I remember swearing.
My stepdad would set up 2 44 gallon drums in the driveway so I could practice reverse parking. I would grind those gears under his watchful eye, until eventually I killed the clutch and the car had to go to the mechanics for an expensive holiday.
When the car came back, I remember asking Mum, who was on the phone at the time, if I could reverse the car out of the garage. She kind of shushed me away with her hand, which I took as a yes. And as the bonnet of the car connected with the side wall of the garage and caused catastrophic damage to both the Nissan and the building, my stepdad took it all in his stride.
Eventually, it was decided that things were getting far too expensive for me to be “home schooled” in driving, that being mechanic and smash repairers bill as well as rebuilding the garage, so in true “give up” style, My stepdad threw some money at the problem and I embarked a long professional relationship with Garry from the local driving school.
After 4 attempts and a near death experience when I forgot to give way at an intersection and the tester screamed like he had been bitten by a snake, Garry was even more pleased than my parents were when I was presented with my P Plates.
In most cases, it is Dads who successfully teach their kids to drive. But in my case it was someone else’s Dad.
Thanks Garry. I am still the world’s worst driver. If I knew where you were I would send you a Top Gear Magazine Subscription as a thank you for your supreme patience.
This post was sponsored by Nuffnang
Is your Dad a car nut like Garry? Give him a Father’s Day gift that keeps repeating itself. Choose a Street Machine Subscription if your Dad is into V8s, older cars and customised coolness. Or street racing and hoonish behaviour. Sometimes a hot car can do strange things to a man. Or then there is Mr Woog’s favourite. His first car was a vintage Volvo. He might as well wear a cravat and a monocle half the time. He has a collection of motor mags in the boy’s bathroom. He is more of a Stig fan so would prefer a Top Gear Magazine Subscription as his toilet reading of choice.
Order a subscription for Father’s Day and you will go into the running to Win a Volkswagen Golf worth over $40,000. That I would totally keep for myself and eBay the Mazda. Which, if I can be honest, I will probably have to pay someone to take away.
