Random Ramblings from the Watsons

Tuesday, 21 February 2012

Indicating...a love story.

The fella has always had something of an "issue" with my need to compulsively indicate.  I can, and have been known to indicate coming out of my own driveway...at which time, if the fella is in the car (and I would have to say this is rare, if the fella is in the car, he is usually in the drivers seat, unless there is no other way), he makes some comment (complete with raised eyebrows), along the lines of "who do you think is behind you?  One of the ant's in an MG?"  The fella can be a bit of a smart arse.

The fella is a good driver, a PROFESSIONAL driver, as he likes to tell me, and therefore, he can clearly do no wrong.  He'll chuck a look in his rear-vision mirror, and if there is no one within cooee, he won't bother to flick that little lever on the right.  Waste of energy, clearly.

So, it was with much dismay that I recently had to phone the fella on a Monday morning, and let him know that, while distracted (read: borderline insane) by the cries of my children about something unrelated, I placed my foot on the accelerator, instead of the brake, flew out of the bottom of our impossibly steep driveway, and smashed into something in my very own court, which contains all of four houses.  The hit'ee (is that a word...the thing that was hit...?) came out of the altercation intact, but the hitter (my lovely Landcruiser) did not.

The conversation went something like this:

Me:  "Gaz, I crashed the car"

Fella:  "you're joking?"

Me: "is this a laughing matter?"

Fella:  "are the children ok?  Are you ok?"

Me: yes.....

Fella:  What about the people in the other car, are they ok?

Me:  Well....here's the thing...I was coming out of our driveway...the other vehicle was un-occupied.

Fella:  What?  You're *expletive* joking, aren't you?

Me:  didn't we already establish that this is not a laughing matter?

Fella:  If I didn't laugh, I'd cry.  So, have you taken the children to school, now?

Me:  No (starts crying).

Fella (takes pity):  Is the car driveable baby?  I can't come now, I am on the other side of town, but I'll be there soon....

Me:  It's driveable...the kids are inside...(more whimpering).

Fella:  So, put them in the car and drive them to school.  It's like getting back on a horse. (Of COURSE it is, how had that escaped me?)

Me:  (whimpers....)...."But, the indicator is broken, I can't INDICATE".

Fella:  Who cares?  Is your front indicator working?

Me:  Yes, but what about if someone else is behind me, and I stop suddenly to make a turn...they'll be mad at me?!

Fella:  Just stick your hand out the window if there is someone behind you, so they know what you are doing.  Take the children to school.

So, I agree, and hang up, but have no intentions of it.  Children are all inside, installed in front of ABC kids on a weekday, unpacking their school lunches picnic style on the lounge room floor, and they're in for the long haul. Pity for them that the neighbour, summoned by all the commotion, knocked on the door soon after, and upon hearing the story, insisted on driving the kids to school in her car.

Off they go, and I am left with Georgia, who needs to get to daycare.  I am kind of agreeing with the fella, about getting back on the horse, so I mentally calculate how I can get to the child care centre, making almost exclusively left hand turns.  Even in my not so built up area, I don't want to hang a righty, in case someone comes flying out of a house, roaring at me about the non-use of the right indicator.  There are people everywhere with nothing better to do, surely?

I work out that I can do it with only 2 right hand turns....one of which is a u'turn from a right lane, so people are going to go with the law of averages, and realise that I am almost certainly going to go in a right hand direction...right?  Well, not necessarily, but that is another vent altogether).

The fella rings back, seeking further re-assurance of our well-being.  I tell him that the children are safely at school, and I am just about to jump in the saddle for the daycare run.  He tells me that I only have to put up with it for one day, as when he gets home, he will move all the child seats over to his Holden SS, and we can, as he calls it "swan about in that".  After all, from what I have told him about the extent of the damage, Blind Freddy would know I fucked the car, and no indication was possible.  Thanks babe.

So, I strapped Georgia in, and set out for daycare.  I flicked on my useless indicator for my right turn out of our 4 house court...content that I had one out of the way.  I think travelled about 2 kilometres out of my way in order to execute a U-turn from  a dedicated right turn lane.  When entering the lane, I stuck a companionable hand out the window, so the people behind me knew that I was braking to enter the right hand turn lane.  I could literally see the confusion, the 'what the hell is this woman doing with her hand?", on the face of the gent behind me.  I think the fella has spent too much time on a pushie, if he thinks this primitive indicating system will work.

Execute the U'ey, precede on for another kilometre or so, and make a left hand turn onto the street the daycare is located.  Briefly consider going on another 500 metres and making a u-turn at a not too busy roundabout.  Do two things concurrently.....look in rear-vision mirror and see car travelling about .5 of a metre from the busted arse of my car...and decide to do a big, brave, PROFESSIONAL driver manoeuvre, and stick my hand in an exaggerated fashion out of the window, as he was so close to my tail he SURELY wouldn't see it unless I was making a really big deal out of it.

And lets just say that he coped fine, but as he was passing me on the left, I hear the unmistakable roar of a trucks horn, coming towards me.  I brought my outstretched arm inside the car about a millisecond before his truck removed it.

I've decided that I'm just not all that renegade.  The carseats were in the driveway waiting when he got home, and I await the return of my beloved right indicator.

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