The Greco-Roman Supporters Club

My frenzied enthusiasm for London 2012 has been building since that triumphant moment when we beat France at Agincourt (sorry - at an IOC meeting in Singapore). When the tickets were released a year ago I applied for every event I recognised, not to mention all the ones that looked authentically Olympian. This meant that Handball and horse dancing were out, but Greco-Roman Wrestling was very definitely in. 

England v France

And it was with great pride that my three ticket-wielding chums and I alighted a cheery Sunday London Underground and headed out to the ExCel centre ('you have checked this is in London haven't you Kate?') for some Greco-Roman frolics. 

We'd agreed on togas. Yet when the strapping army officer chum we'll call Harvey arrived at the Pad holding little more than a stolen towel to fashion into attire, chances of fulfilling our self-imposed dress code seemed slim. We had two pins between us and my bed sheet was sceptical about its reincarnation as an item of clothing. It had just started raining.

It was the weather that sharpened our resolve. We're British aren't we? Bad weather, arts and crafts and living in the past is what we do. By this stage the two of us were holding up proceedings so Harvey and I abandoned all pretences to modesty and trusted our luck to the safety pins. We went to rescue the third and fourth members of our Greco-Roman Supporters Club (GRSC3 and 4) from station and pub respectively. 

Absurd

GRSC4 had adapted the Greco-Roman theme to include a fairground Union Jack hat, facepaint and a Union Jack for a cloak. He looked like a cross between Ronald McDonald and Count Dracula if they'd accidentally fallen into a BNP rally.

Over the wrestling itself, it is best if we draw a veil. Our ignorance - despite much youtube research - was total. There were some truly surprising moves that left us all perplexed that the event had not come with a PG-13 warning. There was a good bit when North Korea fought South Korea ('Who are we supporting?' 'Good Korea obviously') though we didn't quite catch the winner. There was a very small chap who cried when he lost, but the cheering that then followed him out of the building was as heart-warming as it was deserved. 

I'm not going to rabbit on about the atmosphere like some Matt Baker lookalike, but the good-humour and enthusiasm of the crowd (despite the terror-inducing brutality before our eyes) was a sight to behold. Neighbours coveted our union jacks, though no Briton was represented that session. Others praised our costumes with un-British enthusiasm that turned out to be neither sarcastic nor fearful. 

At the end of the day, back on our Noble British Public Transport System, we wended our separate ways knowing that we'd been a part of something great. And if we'd never been quite sure who won, over at Wimbledon Andy Murray was busily claiming his Gold, so we (I) got the opportunity to blub with pride after all.

Race Riot?

Many of you expressed horror at last week's Kate in the Countryside, which saw KITC party to the worst case of sporting sabotage this century. Or so we thought. 

Trenton, mate, if you want to be taken seriously...

Then came Saturday: the day the world met Trenton Oldfiled. A self-proclaimed Suffragette of our times, Trenton is man so committed to the fight against elitism that he ignores the elitist principles of spelling even for his own name.

It was 1pm and grey when I left the Pad for the river. In my cautiously worn Blues stash I fitted in perfectly with the baying braying crowd. The mood was obnoxious and cheerful. 

Oh who am I kidding? I love the Boat Race. In spite of the weather, the banks of the Thames were heaving with enthusiasts emboldened by Pimm's. It was impossible to find anyone or to move. Cast up between a cake stall and the entrepreneurial burger table, I was in danger of accidentally buying a hot dog when my fellow spectators found me.

One, dressed in even more stash than I, had not worn a coat. 

'You must be cold?' I asked.

'No. I've got nine Blues,' he explained.

We kept moving to avoid all the other awful people, and they, us. Soon, the two boats passed, Oxford just ahead.

'Oh God,' moaned Nine Blues, 'it's only just started. We've lost.'

'Watching' the Boat Race by the Thames is a bit of a contradiction in terms. Though you are treated to a lot of atmosphere (read: tweed) you can't see much rowing. There's a good bit for about ten seconds when the boats pass near enough for you to work out which is which but, other than that, we'd had our allotted excitement. When the group in front of us were splashed by the convoy's wake and a girl dropped her drink it was already had one of the most eventful Boat Races I'd ever been to.

We wandered back down towards the start and its giant TV screen. We observed a pigeon. We wondered whether to have another lukewarm beer.

The drink-dropper seemed determined to liven things up: 'Hey look, there's a bloke in the water. Someone's fallen in!' 

This seemed unlikely. Rowing is a simple sport.

'It's a streaker!' I suggested optimistically.

'It's a protest,' volunteered a radio-carrying gent who was passing.

Like I say, you can't see much at the Boat Race. We called a friend.

'Some cretin jumped in. They're restarting the race,' he explained.

We all agreed that the crews should have carried on and got him.

'Would man's head have been chopped off or just gouged?' Mother Dearest mused, via text.

It was at that point we gave up on the live experience and headed to a pub. As for the #boatraceswimmer, we don't need to talk about him. That pratty little man and his God complex and his beard. And his imbecilic ranting. So we won't. You know the rest. 

But be warned Oldfeild: England is unhappy with you. And we won't miss again.

Email Squash

It was with foreboding that I opened my email last week to find a message from a Sarah Loughton entitled 'Squash'. An innocuous title, you might think. Wrongly.

An in-joke I'm afraid.
Hint: moustache

Keen followers of Kate in the Countryside (all others please consult glossary here) will know of my enthusiasm for squash. These days, the only other fans of the game are aged gents. They played when Jonah Barrington (squash player) was almost a celebrity and flares were in. Squash back then was a cool game, or so Daddy Mason likes to tell me. But then he does have a moustache. 

Opportunities for squash games down at my local Pimlico gym are numerous. Saturday's Fight Club, where we tough things out on the squash court to make up for the indignities of office work, is one example. But Sarah Loughton's email relates to the squash league. It's a friendly league for those who like to indulge in the odd gentle game.

Ah, Sarah. She doesn't play squash. At least, I've never actually met the girl but I sense it to be true. Ms Loughton is the diligent PA of Bob, one of my opponents in the league. And she takes her duties very seriously indeed.

Dear Kate

Bob would like to set up his game with you for this month. He is free on Monday 4th, Wednesday 6th, Saturday 9th, Tuesdays 12th and 19th but not Tuesdays 5th or 26th. Thursdays are usually not best. Please respond as soon as possible with your availability.

Regards

Sarah

I already spend much of my life replying to emails. And not all of them about squash. Receiving an email like this usually makes me retreat to my room where I can put on Harry Potter tapes very loud and sit in a corner humming madly to myself. But Sarah does not like to be ignored:

Dear Kate,

Bob is no longer available on the Tuesdays as advised, but will be free on the 5th. Sunday 10th and Thursday 14th or Friday 15th….

Kate,

Bob would like to play his games in the second week of the month this time. Tuesday 17th 3rd or Sunday 30th (not Saturday) may be best. Wednesday….

Kate,

Please detail your availability at your earliest convenience. Bob's mother has….

It becomes a game. I send back impossible chains of numbers to which Sarah replies with one liners. We get nowhere. I don't even want to play this man. He wears a DT teacher's visor on court and last time we played he ran into me so hard that I was winded. Twice.

Then, last week, she strikes:

Kate,

Since you never seem to reply we ['we?' What is this? Are we going for two-on-one here? Surely unfair] will be claiming a walkover if you do not get in touch.

Sarah

Imagine this in email form

I spend the next two days crafting an email of such impenetrable niceness that it can surely lead to no more conflict. I can't take this any more. I have a full time job!

Next day: a forwarded email to accompany Sarah's helpful scribings. She has spoken to the League Master and he has obligingly agreed to remove me from the league. 

A sad day.

So this is January

Resolutions are the latest Pad fad. As January Fever sweeps the nation and its trendsetters, my Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate - though peppering discussions with resolution chat - remains curiously resolution-free. But then, 2011 was a big year of resolve for BOF. He deserves a year off. And frankly he doesn't need any more resolution-based knowledge. Everyone knows that all New Year's Resolutions are useful for is making conversation in January. Come February, the idea of resolve is long gone. No one cares.

In fact, BOF is the only person I know whose resolutions have ever succeeded. Last year he gave up smoking. Fully. It was such a success that it's almost an anti-climax: he now has to begin sentences with the phrase 'As a non-smoker...' and 'The other day when I was not smoking,' to remind others of his achievement. I think there have also been other resolutions involving sports, which might explain the Bikram addiction - though I'm not sure it justifies it.

My own resolutions are not so strenuous. The first was To Give Up Swearing. Now, this may be hard for readers of a child-friendly blog like Kate in the Countryside to believe, but in real life I am a bit of a potty-mouth. Old ladies faint. Rebellious teenagers give me looks on the Tube that say 'Blimey, that's a bit much'. 

KITC?

I'd like to take a moment here to blame my parents. Ever since I first learnt those words that have no place in a blog with its sights on Radio 4 serialisation, any approach towards swearing was met by Daddy Mason and Mother Dearest with horror:

KITC (drops pan): Oh balls.

DM (gasps): Kate Mason!

And so forth.

Anyway, the upshot of this has been that any opportunity to showcase the hilarious aptness and virile fortitude of a swearword, I seize with glee. This is true in workplace, street or Pad. BOF finds me offensive, a fact I find faintly amusing. His pained look makes me feel as though I'm home with the Rents.

So when I announced my plan to give up swearing this year he was supportive and - er - belligerently optimistic. For my failure I have only myself to blame. The enthusiasm with which I discuss swearing (two weeks into January) may have implied that I am not as committed as I'd hoped. And yes, on the second day - blessed relief - I dropped the S-bomb.

Over supper last night I explain to BOF the necessity of trimming the limits of my ambition so that I come up with an achievable and self-improving resolution, but BOF The Resolution Inquisitor is not in agreement.

'No!' he pronounces, with manic fervour, 'Kate! You have to give up completely! That's how it works. Or it's a slippery slope. [Here he charades 'slippery'] NO HALF MEASURES. None! Impossible! No "Oh I'll just have one cigarette now - that'll be nice I don't really need one": next thing you know you've smoked four packs and eaten a cigar.' Breathing deeply he finally puts his knife down. Verdi's Requiem starts inexplicably playing in the background.

So we're going for one swear a day. Don't want to overtax myself.

Sports and Sabotage

I was concerned to learn what a festive sports bout was planned for Christmas this year. True, the Christmas Day Run with Daddy Mason (DM) has long been a fixture in Kate in the Countryside festivities, but I could not have known that Mother Dearest (MD) would be adding to the sporting burden. The rents, it seems, cared little that such dashing about would interrupt the murder mystery watching and compulsive eating that really ought to characterise Christmas. 

Footie: days of yore

Of late a rabidly enthusiastic football fan, MD has taken her support for 'The Wolves' to the level of kick-about participation. So I was surprised to learn on my return home that Boxing Day was to be football day in The Countryside. Some public-spirited teacher had arranged a scurry of teams (largely composed of tiny children and old-ish women) for a high-stakes tournament. 

Team MD was a motley crew. Though Mother Dearest had cannily kidnapped two chaps to uphold our footballing honour, Dogface the dog was not allowed to participate. As a result, these almost adolescent ringers were fairly vital: the rest of the team comprised a non-moving man in goal as well as three tiny children. Though enthusiastic, the children frequently disappeared off the pitch whenever Dogface (mascot) was being particularly entertaining. 

'I shall be captain,' announced the younger of the two kidnapped children, Harry, adorned in full Premiership football fan attire. 

'But, Ced, I want to be captain!'
Tale as old as time itself

'No you won't!' said MD, ruffling his hair so as not to appear patronising. 

The captaincy was to go to our other ringer: blonder, charming and older. The Cedric to our Harry. Harry became sullen. So much for team bonding. 

The first match began. It wasn't long before all such tiffs were forgotten at the sight of MD moving with miraculous speed towards one of our (tiny) opponents. There was a clash that drew gasps and - seconds later - a yowling infant hit the deck. Amazed at the (for her) unusual experience of being the taller, MD raced on triumphantly, ball in possession.

Our second game saw Team MD extend our dominance. MD's assassination tactics on those half her size continued contentious. When a girl with pigtails scuttled towards me - her body almost concealed behind the ball, so small was she - I was terrified of going anywhere near her. Not so MD. 

Another child was floored, and the ref had had enough: 'Yellow Card! MD! If I see that again - you'll be off.' 

That was the end of MD's star footballing career I'm afraid. Fearful of the Red Card, she managed to stay out of trouble, but the aggressive flair was gone. However, Team MD won the tournament, so a managerial career might be more her style.

The Hunt for the Christmas Tree

To keep the festive spirit going strong into the new year (and Christmas Tree Death Day), Kate in the Countryside brings you a happy tale of Christmas Tree hunting in urban sprawl. 

BOF and I have been excited about acquiring our tree since last Christmas. Back then, pre-Pad, it seemed a little bold to acquire a festive shrub when we had nowhere to house it. So I spent my time wandering the snowy streets of London gazing jealously at window dressing to a soundtrack of James Blunt through frostbitten homeless ears.

This year all has changed. Firstly, no snow. Secondly, I am housed. Thirdly, I am in the process of becoming a grown up. Symptoms of this include (but are not limited to): negotiating rent with landlord; fixing internet so it no longer dies every time BOF and I youtube a song; wrapping presents in advance of Christmas day. And achieving The Christmas Tree before Christmas.

Friendly Giant
looked nothing like this

So, on the day allotted Tree Day, defying torrential rain, BOF and I met to hunt a Tree. This could not wait. Never mind that, post walk from work, I was already as drowned as a rat at swimming class. On the Titanic.

Rousing ourselves with carols, we scurried to Battersea Park to find (thanks Twitter) a charmingly ramshackle tree operation in the car park. Staffed by two men in kilts, one of whom was jumper-less and giant, the shop looked like an example of amateur entrepreneurship from a worthy Battersea resident. The tree chaperone was more rained on than I, this Friendly Giant, and looked positively gleeful. Only a true tree enthusiast could muster that much cheer in the face of such soggy adversity.

Poor BOF didn't know what he was getting himself into on the tree decision.

KITC: 'I want this one.'

Other Tree Man (OTM): 'That one is 52 pounds.'

KITC: 'What?? (teary) But I love it! And we can't afford that much. It's Christmas! How about … ten pounds?

OTM: This isn't really a bartering situation. We're a franchise.

BOF: Fifty-two pounds you say? Fine! Good! OK. Actually that is a lot why don't we find another tree? Maybe a shorter one? They might be cheaper you know.

KITC (lip wobbling): NO! I want this tree. It's the best tree by far. Can't you tell it's the best BOF?

BOF: We could get a littler one and put it on the table? Maybe?

OTM (gently - concerned I may be a child): OK how about I throw in some holly? And a stand?

Tree! Also Wellies. 

Finally everything was organised to our (my) satisfaction. A marginally smaller tree at a deeply superior price was purchased. And dead holly into the bargain! I was delighted. 

I carried the holly, BOF carried the tree. As we passed other soggy folk on the bridge I called 'Merry Christmas' to them all with levels of cheer that bordered on the hysterical. It was bloody brilliant. 

But, dear readers, next year I resolve to get the bigger one.

NB. It should be recorded that BOF carried the tree by himself all the way to the Pimlico Pad. From Battersea. Fan-mail should be directed to his agent (KITC in this instance) by postcard. Or in comment form below. Or Twitter (@kvlmason). Thanks.

Not to go on about Spinning, but...

There is no better Spinning image than this

Regular attendees of The Shouter's Spinning Class know that if you arrive late, you won't make the cut. All the spaces will be taken. You'll be left outside, bike-free, with nothing more than your own motivation between you and slobbery. 

Even traditionally early is not early enough. For a 7.15 start the class will be full by five past seven. One advantage of this is that if you're not really feeling up to it, you can turn up at 7.13 and tell yourself that it's not your fault that you just can't fit into the class, before returning to your Haagen-Dazs. Others are not so sanguine, and there have been aggressive scenes from those anticipating but deprived some sadomasochistic cycling.

Yesterday I was there the necessary fifteen minutes beforehand, to bagsy my bike with assertively placed water bottle. Despite this, I still had to satisfy myself with the dodgy one at the back by the giant speaker - all the others were already gone. Being at the back has its advantages, I consoled myself, in sheltering from The Shouter and his kind.

Yesterday was different to most days. In came a woman I had never seen before. She was coming to have 'a word' with the class, she explained.

'There have been complaints.'

Silence, but for the whirr of the bikes. (The serious keenos missing no opportunity to warm up.)

I've been away for a bit (getting concussed at netters, amongst other things) so I cowered in my corner, baffled. 

'Is there going to be fighting every week? Or was last week a one-off? Do you really think it's acceptable to reserve bikes so that others don't have the chance to get one?'

I was really starting to enjoy this now.

'For all of you who don't know me, I'm The Shouter's Wife (TSW),' she explained (I assume she works there too, but she might just be over-zealous). 'I have to come and talk to you because there have been so many difficulties with this class. So many complaints from and to management. You need to agree amongst yourself whose bikes are whose.'

By now, I felt like a seven-year-old Kate in the Countryside, sitting in front of Miss David at primary school as she explained to the yeargroup why it wasn't fair to leave Sophie out of games when she wanted to play too. But then, Sophie was a bag.

McEnroe: Banned from Spin Class

TSW was now explaining the intricacies of fair play. It was acceptable, she said, to save a bike before going to the loo - 'you need to be sensible' - but not before going for a lengthy stroll. I feared the lecture would never end. I was not the only one. 

At last: 'Are you going to behave?'

'Yes!' Shouted some errant fool, pre-emptively caught by the Spinning Room's adrenalin rush. They just love audience participation, these oldies.

'Right. We'll see if you can work things out for a month. If there's any more problems, we're going to have to … do something about it.' 

Punchy. 

'Have a great lesson then you guys! Good to chat!'

In walked The Shouter, looking sheepish. You could almost hear the yummy mummies in the front row thinking how much nicer they were than his wife. If he'd only notice. 

Sunshine - Moonlight - Good Times

Last weekend was characterised by the triumph of English Summertime plans over vile weather. Well, almost.

On Saturday a friendly rounders tournament had been organised on Clapham Common by the (surprisingly militant) boyfriend of my Fashion Icon friend Fi.  Embarrassingly keen for any competitive sporting event, I dashed from Old Man Squash in Pimlico with my squash scalps - only to find that torrential rain had hit.

Sportsman's Diet

However, social rounders players are hardcore and absolutely not to be deterred by rain. Or only a little deterred. Fine - we hid in the pub for two hours until Fi's boyfriend had fully 'tested the ground' by practising skidding stops in orange shorts. 

As the rain died down we acquired sugary provisions to prep ourselves. Fi pimped me out to a team by making bold promises about my rounders skills that I knew I'd be unable to fulfil.

In fact, my incompetence was only intensified by my enthusiasm. The same seemed true of my very enthusiastic adoptive team. We didn't do very well.

Fearsome Opponent

When we'd been trounced by (yet another) lot - this group resplendent in tribal headgear - my rounders career seemed over. But then, another (better) team was short of a player. With the pragmatic attitude of an Andy Murray fan at Wimbledon, I forgot my loyalty in an instant, and switched sides.

I'm not sure if my charlatan behaviour was rewarded or exposed by the fact that my newly-adopted team won the whole thing. The fact that we finished the tournament at all (by this time it was dark and subterfuge rewarded) was a victory of commitment over clouds. No so my team-hopping, true. I have no excuse other than ... I do like to win at sports.

Persisting with the outdoor theme next day, I found myself in Marylebone for an al fresco feast at the house of Blondie and Mr Blondie. So bourgeois are these two that they actually have a Real Garden. No need for a fictional outdoor space there, as at our Pad.

As we arranged brunch things in said Garden, their Aussie flatmate had us pose for natural English tea party pics [including - but not limited to - Kate + Blondie pouring tea; expressions of interest as tea is poured; advanced plate reorganisation]. When the first drops of rain started to fall moments later the patriotic embarrassment was intense. 

Pressing on regardless with summer-specific fun, Mr Blondie unleashed the barbeque to set fire to some halloumi and an unlucky tea towel, while inside we gorged on spinach and small cakes. Separately.

Mr Blondie was to appear on Sky later probably to discuss Sally Bercow, on whom I suspect he has a secret, extremely well-repressed crush. He paced the room, making calls to producers and taxis and tweeting emotionally.

'What I want to know is why you never write about us in your blog?' demanded Blondie, from one side of their expansive capitalist sofa. (This is a sofa that knows nothing of DFS. It's probably padded with dead duck.) 'Way more interesting things happen when I'm around. We went to a ball once! And look at today: I made eggs with spinach in!' 

Everyone else agreed. We praised the eggs. And then we sat in our own squalor for the rest of the day.

A Dangerous Game

Over the summer we've been playing in a cut-throat netball league on courts near the Barbican. As I'm sure is immediately obvious to everyone currently in England, winter is on its way. Our last game was to be this week. Yet Tuesday's final showdown was cancelled for a spot of rain. And who is to blame for this meteorological travesty? None other than Kate in the Countryside. Here's why:

Fig. 1: The Fall

A month ago our Netters Crew strode onto court, psyched and dangerous. Small attractively-spaced clouds dotted the skyline, but the morning's rain had long gone. With minutes to go before half time, when we had already all but routed the opposition, I dived aggressively [difficult to imagine, I know] to intercept the ball. Cartoon-like, I found myself sliding on a slimy patch of concrete [see diagram opposite], took off for a moment mid-fall, then my head slammed into the floor. 

Fig. 2: Our Team

I opened my eyes in amongst a sea of hilariously good legs. The whole episode had gone from Tom and Jerry to Bring It On in a matter of moments. The main thing I felt, as I failed to move much, was embarrassment. A nervous-looking Netball Organiser came over to say that she'd called an ambulance. Cringe. Moments later, a biker in black leather arrived. It was then I worried that something really had happened to my brain. But no - he was just there to check I wasn't planning on dying before the ambulance made it. 

Better Legs Than Middleton (BLT-Mids), a star player from our netball team, collected my stuff and offered to come to the hospital with me. 


Ambulance arrived, I was bundled into a stretcher. I remember convincing myself that it was possible that none of the netballers would see me in my luminous stretcher with biker and three-man Ambulance entourage. Disconcertingly, since I couldn't seem to speak very well, I kept being given options: 'Do you want this wheelchair? Can you walk? Can you see me? Do you want to come in the ambulance now? Do you want your friend to come? ' 

My response - I learned later - was to keep trying to divert the Nice Ambulance Man from asking questions about me by telling BLT-Mids to explain about her own maladies:

e.g. 'BLT-Mids tell the guy about how you fell off your bike that time and nearly died. Go on, tell him - great story.' Also: 'BLT-Mids has hurt her eye! Have you told the man Mids? Maybe we can get it checked out when we get there!'

At this the (mildly alarmed) Nice Ambulance Man finally stopped humouring me: 'You do realise it's a hospital not an optician we're going to don't you? Now tell me if this hurts...'

At the hospital, we waited to be seen: me lolling and babbling in the world's most antiquated wheelchair, BLT-Mids trying to charm the doctors into submission. This worked fairly well. We advanced as far as a preliminary cubicle near to some doctors, but unfortunately achieving this holding place seemed to have no working relationship to how soon I'd be seen. It did mean that we had the benefit of witnessing minor surgery in the rooms around us. Squarks of pain and unpleasant clipping noises were nonchalantly ignored by all. 

Four hours later, a doctor arrived. She looked at me, asked me the same six questions that had been asked by each of the seven nurses that had preceded her, poked me in the ear and scalp, then announced me free to go.


'They never looked at your eye!' I said to BLT-Mids, disappointed, as we fled the scene.

Kate and the Motorcar

Prompted by concerned readers of Kate in the Countryside, I ditched Baz the too-friendly driving instructor. Things were getting serious now with my driving test so soon. Also I was struggling to cope with the stress of Baz's fluctuating moods (dictated - as far as I could tell - by his coffee + cigarette intake, as well as whether he'd had much success on Angry Birds lately). 

Granted, the Driving Test is something that many seventeen-year-olds overcome with ease. But at my advanced years, I could only fear it. 

Lohan attends
Driving Test

So when the morning of the test arrived, I went for a lengthy distracting run and spent an hour or so deciding on a jacket and skirt combo, (court appearance attire) to fully acknowledge the solemnity of the occasion. 

Off to the test centre we drove - getting lost on the way when I took the wrong turning from the A406. For reasons still unclear to me, I was taking the test somewhere halfway to Scotland called Borehamwood. It's a quiet and leafy suburb which frankly made my jaunts up to Marble Arch dodging homicidal maniacs seem a bit unnecessarily Real World.

Cozy.

I tend to talk fast and to excess when nervous. My poor new driving instructor smiled benevolently as we waited for my test somewhere that was a soothing cross between a doctor's waiting room and a detention centre. 

Soon Derek the Driving Examiner processed out of his Driving Examiner Lair: 'Kate Mason?'

KitC: 'That's me!' 

I agreed with everything Derek said to the point of hysteria. (D: 'Good weather we're having eh?' KitC: 'Good? Great more like! BRILLIANT weather!') When he asked me to complete 'Turn in the Road' (three point turn to you and me) I thought all my luck had come at once. The easiest one!

Enough said

It was a rather narrow road. 'Hope I only need three points to my turn eh?' I joked, desperately. Derek looked blank.

'Proceed when ready,' he intoned.

In no time at all I was sweating and shaking as I grappled with steering wheel and gearstick. I checked my mirrors so much I mostly forgot to move.  This I teamed with an onslaught of driving-related jokes in an attempt to charm Derek. It didn't work. He was uncharmable.

At last, it was all over. Back at the test centre, dear old Derek passed me. Then, summoning my instructor to listen, he harrangued me for my inane commentary during my appalling turn in the road: 'It was irrelevant. You did too many points.' etc. I tried in vain to explain that I'd been attempting jokes. He didn't buy it. 

I fled back to Hanger Lane (Where? I have no idea) to catch the tube back to the Pad. There, I was so overcome with relief and adrenaline at being no longer L that I struck up conversation with a mother and daughter waiting on my platform. Luckily, they were Australian and seemed to think such friendly tube chatter was normal, rather than fleeing in fear, as I'd expected.

By the time the train arrived, we were old friends. They asked why I wasn't at work today. I explained (with pride) that I'd just passed my driving test. They were baffled. 'Oh OK. But you're twenty-three right?' asked the sixteen-year-old daughter, looking confused and perhaps a little superior. She - of course - was already driving. Last time I make conversation on the Underground.