Three weeks home, and Im not dead yet. Ive got to admit this is a surprise, even to me.
The problem is not inhaling so many lovely plates of sausage, mash and beans that I choke and keel over – though that is not the most unlikely thing I have ever heard. Nor have I tripped over my own feet and fallen down a drain in my rush to pick up a Saturday paper and get to my favourite Brighton Brunchery before their tables all fill up and the eggs benedict runs out, although god knows thats always a concern. Nor has a happy British cat slept on my face until I could breathe no more and furballed myself to death.
No, instead, I have just managed three weeks without being run over. Believe me, I am as impressed by this as anyone. And even more so than others.
The problem is not just the not remembering which way traffic is coming from – I know I had 31 years to get used to it before a brief couple of years in The America, but never driving, I wasnt completely solidly sure of it all that time either, and the couple of years of traffic going the other way (unless it was on one of the many one-way streets, in which case it was going the same way, but twice as much), Im four times as confused.
Also given the fact that there are many one way streets around where I live, and several of the streets that are two-way are so narrow the only way to tell which side of the road traffic is meant to be on is to measure which line of parked cars are most likely to have their wing mirrors swiped off by the oncoming car.
Telling me that the traffic drives on the left would, of course, be enormously effective If I knew my right from my left.
Added to this the fact that someone I met the other day said The craziest thing just happened to me, I was just driving down this very quiet road, at stupid oearlyclock in the morning, and I completely forgot which side of the road we drive on
I mean come on.
If people living here ALL THE TIME cant remember, what kind of chance does THAT give me?