Riding shotgun, old things and a return to the reality of life
Between a dull headache, rheumy eyes, a rasping cough and my –at the best of times – dodgy night time vision, I suppose it was inevitable that I would ride shotgun for most of our time in Benidorm. Inevitable or not, that did little to settle the simmering discontent that gnawed at my insides each time we had to hop into the car and go somewhere. To compensate I offered directions, commented on lane switches and approaches to roundabouts and generally made myself as obnoxious as possible, particularly when other road users came close enough to see me sat in the other, non-driving seat. In my mind, that (ultimately useless endeavour) made it seem to others that I was in control, orchestrating things from behind the scene rather than being the mere passenger I was. Patriarchal tropes and stereotypes aside, it offered a front row seat from which to observe first-hand all the little discourtesies female drivers endure on the roads. Away from the immediacy of the moment, memories of Adam Gopnik’s New Yorker piece on the subject of learning to drive came to mind. Not that the fact that other men, far more intelligent than I, have struggled with this absolves me of blame here. ...