Tuesday, 26th April 2005.

Ill Wind

The road that runs from the outskirts of Milton Park through Milton village and then off to Sutton Courtenay is paved with cars parked by the grassy verges. It's a road that probably wasn't designed for heavy traffic - about half the houses that largely don't have garages, and it shows. Frequently you'll find six or seven cars parked in a line down one side of the road, which can lead to snarl-ups as you wait patiently at the end of the queue for someone to let you go: a lengthy single-carriage stretch, like one of those roadworks blockades but minus the traffic lights. To their credit, the other drivers in Milton are usually very nice, and will let you go quite willingly. It's only once you reach Sutton Courtenay that you encounter unremittingly impatient motorists in abundance.

Last night we were coming back from shopping. I was musing on Emily's wordplay from the night before: we'd been talking about the sheer stupidity of the words "Loving you is easy 'cause you're beautiful", and she'd suggested changing it to "Loving you is beautiful 'cause you're easy". I was just wondering how the song would go, when I encountered a white van parked at the side of the road. This in itself wasn't a problem, although it was parked on a slight corner. We pulled to a stop just as a stocky man in his early fifties - an electrician or a builder, perhaps - walked round the front of the van towards the driver's door, ready to move off. I crossed my arms on the steering wheel - and that was when I honked the horn.

It's not the first time that this has happened in the last couple of weeks. A few days ago I was on the road back to work behind a large lorry, doing a steady twenty miles an hour. Near the roundabout that leads to my office I crossed my arms again to flick the indicator, and wound up giving two inadvertent blasts on the horn. The innocent lorry driver no doubt thought that I was hooting at him to get a move on, and I swiftly took the left into the car park, not daring to look back for fear of catching an angry gesture. You'd think that such an incident - embarrassing, if hardly life-threatening - would have taught me to be more careful, but alas it was not to be.

Back to Milton Road. Realising what I'd done, I quickly sat upright and glanced at the middle-aged van driver, who was looking at me with a mixture of bemusement, upset and mild indignation. Despite myself I am still paranoid about upsetting other people, and it was at this point that I began to panic. I pressed down on the accelerator swiftly, forgetting that the car wasn't quite in gear, which led to a loud and impatient-sounding revving of the engine, coupled by a two-inch movement towards the van.

"What on earth are you doing?" Emily asked.
"I didn't mean to do that," I said. "I slipped on the steering wheel and honked the horn by mistake. He probably thinks I'm impatient with him."

Finally finding the right gear, I jerked forward towards the van in the manner of a very bad learner driver, presumably to the relief of the three-car queue that was forming behind us. I tapped the electric window button and wound down Emily's side, pulling over so that he'd be able to hear me and probably getting far too close to him in the process. As we passed the stocky builder, who by now was no doubt convinced that I was trying to run him over, I leaned out of the window and shouted "Sorry! Accident!"

What I'd meant to say, of course, was "I didn't mean to do it!", which would have held a more obvious meaning, but we never say quite what we meant to. And I drove off, as fast as possible.

"So what was all that about, anyway?"
"I was crossing my hands on the steering wheel - "
"Why were you doing that?"

Boredom is the answer. Change of routine. Adding variety. One of those things you're taught not to do when you're learning. Unfortunately I forget that I'm not exactly blessed with a wonderful sense of manual dexterity, and my innate clumsiness is never more apparent than when I'm trying to do something clever. The ten-to-two (or quarter-to-three) position has obvious sensible merits, which is why it's taught so widely - but it's only when you're in a situation like this that you realise just what they are. I wanted to explain all this to Emily, but sheer embarrassment was preventing me from thinking straight.

"Anyway, I expect that he thought I was cross with him for parking there. That was why I was anxious to apologise for it."
"Which you did by pulling over and confusing him even more. He probably thinks that you were trying to warn him about something further up the road."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, you pulled over by his van, and shouted 'ACCIDENT!'"

I hadn't thought of it like that. "Oh dear. The worst of it is that I did the same thing the other day. Sometimes," I went on as we pulled into the drive, "I'm just not a very sensible motorist, am I?"
"Oh, James..."

It was an affectionate "Oh, James..." - the sort that carries "What am I going to do with you?" as an obvious subtext. The whole thing had got me thinking: it's easy to become distracted and complacent with your current set-up. Out of something approaching desperation - or just the desire to be clever - you'll try new things, but if you're not careful your concentration vanishes completely and you can slip up. Something basic and awkward. Cue much reddening of the face, and the necessity of a towel to wipe up bits of egg.

I was musing on this when all of a sudden, from somewhere further along Bradstocks Way, came the unmistakeable sound of a loud car horn. We glanced at each other.
"I didn't do that."
Emily dissolved into giggles.