Carol’s Column

Watchit! Here comes Niki Lauda Lazar!

I can see how people turn white over night.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

My oldest, unmarried son has just acquired his learner’s licence.

I should have realised there would be trouble because that was the fatal day he was able, legally, to assume control of my motor car.

That wretched piece of paper, official, signed and stamped, was actually the instrument of making a takeover bid for my car.

The first day was a rude awakening.

“Somebody’s trying to steal my keyhole,” I yelled to my husband. I was barely coherent.

“Whaddya mean, somebody’s trying to steal your keyhole?”

“I went outside to feed the indigent neighbourhood ants and saw a strange man sitting in my car.”

My spouse extricated himself from his shower, wrapped his Gucci-soft-as-silk towel around his dropped waistline and we trotted outside.

Sure enough, firmly entrenched behind the wheel of my red chariot, was a stranger.

“Screw your eyes back in,” said my husband, “that’s not a stranger, it’s your son.”

Well any mother can make a mistake.

Said my husband: “I told Barry that he should have as much experience as possible in driving.”

In case you are unaware of how a learner’s licence operates, I’ll explain.

A learner driver is entitled to drive a car only in the presence of a licensed driver.

In this family there are two licensed drivers.

And the other one cunningly removed himself from the scene by kissing me on the nose and saying: “Goodbye little wife – it’ll be an exciting, new experience for you, being driven by your oldest son.”

He was right.

“Hi, Ma, I’ll drive,” said Barry cheerfully, smiling engagingly like a killer shark. “Climb into the passenger seat, fasten your safety belt and we’re away.”

Cheapskates, that’s what car manufacturers are these days.

Would it really cost that much more to install a double set of brakes, a duplicate steering wheel and have the outer walls made of armour-plated steel.

It’s not that I’m nervous, you understand.

“Why are you so nervous?” asked my son.

“Nervous? Who’s nervous? What makes you think I’m nervous?”

“Then why are you hiding on the floor like that?”

“It’s comfortable down here. Put your foot on the accelerator, give a little petrol and release the clutch gently.”

“Relax, Ma, I know what to do.”

We took off like a Boeing in full flight and only hit earth halfway down the block.

“Watchit, there’s a truck heading towards you.”

“Ma, that’s a mini.”

“My God, it’s so big, I could have sworn it was a truck.”

We grated and growled our way to Emmarentia.

“Tricky little things, aren’t they,” said my son as he took a corner on one wheel.

“Ma, stop panicking!”

“Who’s panicking?”

“You are, you keep grabbing the handbrake. Two people cannot drive this car at the same time.”

Slowly, I taught Barry the rules of the road.

“If you see a traffic cop, in fact anyone in uniform, always smile and call him ‘Officer’ or ‘Sir’. Tell him he’s looking good today and remember, never stop smiling.

“If a man on a motorbike wearing a white crash helmet, chases you, stop immediately, it’s probably a cop.

“Always wave and smile when you go past a speed trap – it makes the traffic officers feel happy that there are people who care.”

Barry’s driving is coming on nicely. He hasn’t pranged the car once this week and all those lucky pedestrians he missed so narrowly are still at large.

All was well until yesterday when Barry took his father for a drive.

He came home looking like a thunder cloud.

“Is something wrong?” I asked hesitantly, I could see all was not well in the state of Denmark.

“Is something wrong? Is something wrong?” He could hardly speak.

“We were driving along when we passed a speed trap. Your son started waving and smiling and jumping around like a clown as we passed.

“The cops immediately gave chase at which stage your son stopped the car immediately. Causing the one traffic officer to almost come off his bike.

“He was not happy. He reprimanded Barry strongly, all the while your oldest son kept smiling and saying ‘Yes, Sir, no, Sir’.

“Of course the cop thought he was taking the Mickey out of him and it took me an hour of hard talking to persuade him that Barry was not a cretinous halfwit who was making fun of him.

“He wanted to arrest him, me and impound the car. What’s worse, is that as we were finally driving away, Barry didn’t notice the cop’s arm was still in the window.

“He wound up the window and drove half a block with the traffic officer attached to the car.

“And this is how you teach Barry to drive?”

Some people are never satisfied I thought to myself.

Later, as Barry and I drove along Jan Smuts Avenue, he smiled as he grated the gear through from fourth into third.

“You know, Ma, Dad says you’re a rotten teacher, well, you may be rotten but it’s always exciting driving with you.”

“Keep your eyes on the road,” I screeched. Too late. We pranged the car in front and my false teeth flew out of my mouth into the ashtray.

“See what I mean?” said Barry, “there’s always action when you’re around.”

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