Formula 1's loss, my gain

Carlos Who?

Me knuckles. Them's white and me nerves they's in tatters. The upside is that BLISS (my harshest driving critic (apart from those people in front, behind, and coming the other way doing that funny thing with their thumb and middle finger)) might cut me a bit of slack. For a little while, at least.

We went to the hospital for an appointment. Which hospital? First, the wrong hospital. Arrived: five minutes before the appointment time. Left the wrong hospital and set off for the right hospital.

The right hospital was fifteen to twenty minutes away, and we just about got there in time for the appointment. Hence the white knuckles, grey hair, shortness of breath and shredded composure.

We proved a number of things along the way:

1. BLISS can handle a car, at speed. Any speed you like.

2. She can swear, without too much potty-mouth but with splendid inventiveness.

3. She does not like people who drive slowly.

4. Neither does she like people who drive Audis, BMWs, Fords or VWs. Of any gender, age, whatever.

5. She relies on sheer road presence, without recourse to the horn or flashing the main beams at people.

6. By hook or by crook, she gets to appointments on time.

7. For someone without a huge stride, she can get a right wiggle on when she wants to. I was almost jogging to keep up.

8. In areas with an ageing population, there's a high proportion of people driving very slowly.

9. Finally a scientific theory: the likelihood of you encountering a slow moving and obstructive drive is directly proportional to how much of a rush you're in.

The cure

My first and only (phobic) reaction to entering a hospital (or any medical establishment, including the dentists, chemists, and gatherings of old folk) is “how soon can I get out of here”. Even before going through the doors I'm thinking only of escape. However, I was so flustered that although I was probably in the usual tiz, it seemed like absolute relaxation compared to getting there, and I almost forgot to be in a bad mood.

The cure to the cure

Loud, boring old dude. Loud, double boring old dear in the waiting room. Music player moaning about low battery level. Ahhh! Back to normal. The “get me the hell out of here” panic I'm used to in waiting rooms.