I’ve had a couple of unfortunate experiences with men and cars. Well, truth be told, I’ve had many, many unfortunate experiences with both over the years, but of late I’ve had a couple combining the two.
The first of these incidences occurred two days before we left for our holiday. I had finished work for the day and was heading down to the bar to have a drink with my brother. I stopped on the way to pick up some flowers. The flower place is on a notoriously busy road and it was 5pm on Friday evening. Great. I managed to find a movie star park and did my shopping. Usually, trying to get out of the park and back into the stream of traffic is the tricky bit, but in this case I lucked out. There was a huge gap so I indicated and pulled out. Perfect.
Yeah but no.
A monkey calling masquerading as a man decided that he couldn’t be bothered with the 50kph that the traffic in his lane was travelling at so he decided to pull into mine about 1 metre behind where I was pulling out. He then swerved around me in a manouevre that can only be described as idiotic, missing me by about 1cm and scaring the innards out of me.
I pulled out behind him and being the placid and well mannered girl that I am, I raised my eyebrows and shook my fist at him. Well, not really a fist, it was actually just the one finger. That apparently enfuriated the monkey, because he stopped his ridiculous white van in the middle of the stream of traffic, got out (which in itself was foolish as he was wearing an outfit that I can only assume he threw on in the dark), approached my car and then threw some hard object as hard as he could at my windshield in an obvious attempt to shatter it. Luckily, his aim was on par with his dress sense and intelligence, and he missed, hitting my windscreen wiper and doing no damage at all. After a quick check to make sure he had no more hard objects in his hands, I laughed at him and once again pointed to the sky with my finger before putting my foot down and driving like a bat out of hell until I could no longer see him (which was quite a feat, considering his outfit).
It did take me about half an hour to stop shaking though.
The second incident occurred the following day, only this time I was on my way home from the bar (hmmmm…). Being responsible citizens, we called Dial-a-driver to get the car home. They arrived on time, no problem. They found us, no problem. The driver hopped in our car, no problem. He then attempted to drive, which was when the problems began. Apparently he couldn’t. I was rather surprised, because I would have thought it was a fairly obvious prerequisite for a dial-a-driver. He made some comment along the lines of “Oh, this car is a manual. I only drive automatics”. The comment was redundant as his actions were clearly communicating that to us.
After attempting to drive for about 200 metres, he’d red-lined the car, ridden the clutch until we could smell it and reamed the engine until it appeared that the turbo was going to blow through the front of the car. Shaun finally had enough and suggested that it would be safer for us to drive drunk.
This enfuriated the driver (are you seeing a pattern here?) who slammed on the brakes in the middle of an intersection and got out of the car, leaving us in it. Luckily, his wife was in the tail car and she hopped in and managed to competently drive us home whilst carrying out an intelligent conversation. Halleluja.
So, for all those people that have ever questioned whether I should be allowed behind the wheel of a car (and believe me, there are many of you), I just want you to know that it could be a WHOLE lot worse.
Whilst on the subject of testosterone, I feel compelled to say a big YEAH to my trainer and good friend Doug Viney, who took out the K-1 Grand Prix in Las Vegas in the weekend. Dougie, you’re the MAN.