I don’t drive. [You need to remember this.]
So, there we were, after ten days of a rented Danish car, and with me barely closing my eyes on The Bridge as we crossed. A little, but mostly not.
So, there we were, picking up our own car at the airport, and the Resident IT Consultant and I arranged our belongings and got ready for the drive home. Once I had my padded jacket where I wanted it, I traipsed across and waited for the Resident IT Consultant.
He’s a polite man, so when he saw me standing there expectantly, he asked if he was in the way, or something? Did I want him to move? ‘Oh, I’d say so,’ I replied, looking at him meaningfully. Still took him a while to cast his eye over the car, before he clocked that he been about to drive from a seat devoid of a steering wheel.
I wasn’t generous enough to mention that I’d been quite surprised to find a steering wheel on my side, as I’d wrestled that jacket into position. But I was quicker to work out what had gone wrong.
Usually this only happens in the rented cars, when he gets in and finds they have forgotten to put in a steering wheel.
I tell you, this getting older is no picnic.