A Means to an End

I should remember that real life is infinitely more frightening than fiction. I've just spent the last two days getting driving lessons from my uncle. I got my G1 license, and realized that I had to practice on a real car. With my parents gone, that meant Arne's car, and he was the closest thing to a "a fully licensed driver with at least four years of driving experience" that I had. Arne's car is a 1988 T-Bird ("the last really big one!" he kept on saying), with Swedish memorabilia and magic equipment all over it. It steers like a tank. It brakes like a tank, or at least a tank with strained brakes. This morning I nearly hit Mrs. Anderson, who was putting "missing cat" signs up on the telephone poles downtown. "Serves her right," Arne said (he's still mad at my cat for using the "Aztec Tomb" trick box as a litter box. Arne's only driving hints are "go faster" and "stop oh my god stop now." He also had me go through the Tim Horton's drive-through without paying, so I ended up with an extra-large double double all over my left arm. I hope I can stay in tomorrow and catch up on my reading and maybe call Duncan if he isn't doing anything.