Driving confidence

Driving ahead

They say a horse can sense the fear and nervousness of a rider in the saddle, as I am not a horse rider, I hope the first time I do mount a horse, it will feel that beyond my being a learner, I intend to have a really good time exuding confidence that I am being borne with dignity to the extent that the horse would contribute to the experience.

I found myself observing an interesting stance on the control of the automobile. Interestingly, I do not drive, and I cannot drive because of issues with my eyesight reduced by no conception of stereo vision, I have a lazy eye making judging distance and speed of approach quite difficult.

Bosom driving

A lady literally had her chest on the steering wheel, and that was not because of her ‘Dolly Parton’ assets, she had leaned so far forward, her forearms had no clearance as her hands gripped the top of the steering wheel, every so intently, I could sense the apparent lack of confidence in her driving.

It was like her exercise of caution had become a dangerous safety issue if at any time she needed to execute an emergency manoeuvre. Even a non-driver could see it. I would hate to be a passenger in her car.

Then think of those holding the steering wheel at arm’s length, leant back with both hands on the wheel, probably not monarchs of the road but not shy either.

Driving with Mrs

A husband and wife in the car and relaxed driving, both arms dropped down and the steering wheel lightly held at the bottom. They are probably on a leisurely day out.

Then thinking of the man with an arm on the side window and a finger hooking the side of the steering wheel, the other hand on his lap, maybe his head is bopping to the sound of the loud music in his car. That's self-confidence bordering on the supercilious.

My mother started driving in the 60s, though she cannot drive anymore due to sight degeneration. She was always confident and assertive, even on one instance in the mid-1970s, after she was overtaken by a bus driver, he popped his head out of his window to look as if in disbelief that it was a woman driving and driving so well too.

The driving kings

Yet, the kings of the road are not the fast car aficionados who have taken their middle-life crisis to the Ferrari or Lamborghini without having kept trim that they are forklifted into the car, and they have to crawl out on hands and knees, the indignity, it was a widely shared video on social media.

They are in fact, the truck and coach drivers who through use and practice with their fully aware responsibility of human or goods cargo have with practice and experience mastered both vehicle and route, their steering wheels quite like plates angled slightly over their laps and the manoeuvrability that would leave you amazed.

They are confident and effortlessly so.

Driving from the back seat

But I must end with the backseat drivers of which my father is a prime example and from whom I have acquired so much driving theory, I could well be a professor of theoretical driving. In his professional years in senior management, he had company cars that came with his role, and to the company cars were assigned drivers.

One such driver had before been a truck driver and had the penchant for slightly overshooting a turning before turning in as one would when driving a truck or heavy goods vehicle with the length that defines them, this is far different from the shorter length of a 4-door sedan car, and even from being absorbed in the morning newspaper, the Chief Accountant would thunder from behind, the alert for a driving admonition to the driver began with what essentially was his mannerism, “Look!”

Yes, “Look!”, was the equivalent of Jesus’ statements that began with ‘Verily, verily,’ in the King James Version of the Bible, it was the notification to prick your ears for an incoming pearl of driving wisdom. Whilst sitting in the front passenger’s seat, it was there that I learnt, you do not need to put your foot on the brakes to slow down on a motorway, if you have a lot of stopping distance, just shift your gears downward and enjoy the science of automobile engineering.

I have resisted every urge to be a backseat driver where partners like Steven in the 1990s and Brian presently are concerned, they are very good drivers though and I thank them for having such driving confidence, if I had the eyes for it, their example would have stood me well.

Of skin that needs care

Not mine for thee

I am reminded of a phlebotomist who would never succeed in extracting a droplet of blood from out of my veins, no matter how hard he tried. That he is in that position must mean he is fully qualified to attend to such a delicate matter.

Yet, at closer to 7 than 6 feet tall and with a frame that would well be found with lumberjacks than in a hospital, his hands large as fans to compare with elephant ears that no matter how soft they are their gigantic expanse presents an apparent Lilliputian to a Gulliver in scrubs, almost too terrifying to countenance.

My first sight of him as he approached with a bowl of vials and phlebotomy paraphernalia my veins seized up and decided, no dainty word of comfort said from thee shall my veins yield to thy touch. By the time I was pricked and poked that I was a humanoid representation of the Swiss cheese called Emmental, I was sent to the hospital’s blood room where dexterity and capacity meant they could make stones exsanguinate and I to them was not a stone.

Oiling of the epidermis

The other day, I thought about my chapped lips that I hate putting lip balm on as it feels so irritating, I am ready to wipe it off in minutes. Surprisingly, I endured a whole night of the application of the lip balm and not since I used Wet Lips way back in Nigeria, a liquid balm with a roll-on applicator that gives a glistening and glossy look that might appear unusual on males but worked a treat.

That I have preferred to peel off dried skin from my lips despite the bruising and pain than using a balm is strange but convenient. Then moisturisation is a necessity I too often decline to my detriment, from hands to skin shedding on the soles of my feet and certain hard hands that might entertain a visit from a version of lib balm for the manicurist’s table.

I guess whilst parts of my face can seem to be oily, my skin needs a bit more care than I readily submit myself to essential grooming. I get the best care for my skin when Brian not only insists but is at hand, those hands to give my feet more than the kneading and care required.

Palm Sunday: Clean hands are of the conscience

Common service in the church

Probably something I have not taken due notice of before, on Sunday mornings, I will usually wake up to a live church service on BBC Radio 4, the ones from the Church of England, I am more attuned to. The time did Spring Forward to British Summer Time, though it was more like British Raining Time, this morning.

However, today, Palm Sunday, I recall that when the readings came up in church, it was like a déjà vu moment, I very remembered I had heard it before, recently too. At church, with the new normal of no congregational singing, a cantor doing most of the musical stuff in front of the congregation or in the choir, much of what we do is sitting down apart during the greeting and certain congregational recitations.

The gospel in song

The children without a Sunday School with preoccupied and distracted by toys, puzzles, or their colouring books. The gospel was first read to announce the triumphal entry of the Lord into Jerusalem on the ass of a colt the second gospel was of the Passion, the first 54 verses of 66, of the 27^th chapter in the Gospel according to St Matthew, sung by the cantor and a laudable feat at the best of times. [Bible Gateway: Matthew 27:1-54 (NRSVA)]

As I have been listening to books on Audible rather than reading them on Kindle, there was a sense of how the words we heard seems to take on life as you read the words being sung to our hearing. I could not help but see the level of human wickedness that greeted the desire for the chief priests of that day to get rid of Jesus Christ.

A window on religious wickedness

When Judas Iscariot realised what his betrayal of Jesus Christ would lead to, he went to return the 30 pieces of silver the chief priests and elders gave him for his dastardly deed and they indifferently said, “What is that to us?”, on picking up the money he threw down in the temple, they deliberated amongst themselves agreeing it was “the price of blood”, bought a piece of land with it, not for anything but the burial of strangers to whom they will have no duty, obligation, or responsibility and called it the field of blood.

They agitated the crowd to prefer a murderer and thief over Jesus Christ and even Pontius Pilate when he made to wash his hands off the matter, recognised that they were against Jesus out of envy. Just the thought that someone bringing succour, healing and peace to their people making them somewhat irrelevant as they could never rise to minister to those needs was their all-consuming passion to destroy Jesus, he had to be killed.

Culpable in every way

I could not entirely absolve Pontius Pilate, his wife warned him not to have anything to do with Jesus, he had the power and authority to set Jesus free, much as whatever the decision he took would determine the fate of Jesus Christ in that place.

Out of fear for his position and hoping to avoid an insurrection, all acts of self-preservation of status and person, he delivered Jesus to them and the ritual of crucifixion started with scourging and mockery, the act of capital punishment will also be carried out by those under his command, just as he decided to place a notice at the head of the cross declaring Jesus, the kind of the Jews.

It all made for sombre reflection; the Holy Week has begun. In these pandemic times, as we sanitise our hands to prevent disease and contamination, Pontius Pilate would never have been able to wash his hands clean of the matter that underpins the force of Christianity, the cross and the consequent resurrection of Jesus Christ. Clean hands are first of the conscience and the decisions we make long before symbolically washing them in a bowl of water would mean anything.

Middle finger the police

Fingers the cow

Fingers can be up to so much mischief especially if they extend from idle hands. As a child we had fields and meadows on which cattle grazed around our well-appointed colonial bungalow.

One afternoon as one cow came towards the opening in the inner fence, we pointed our palms, fingers spread-eagled like a star in what is a customary abuse of maternal forebears and that began a chase from the cow till the herdsman got it under control before it mauled us little kids to the ground.

Handing my way

Never make hand gestures to cattle they might read you and tread you. But in those same times I did notice that this was a transitional time between old vehicles without traffic indicators and those that had the flickers.

Since my father worked for a mining company there were lots of Land Rovers about and quite a few had the sign - No Hand Signals! Well, society was so polite then.

All fingers good

However, when I returned to England almost 20 years ago, I did not know the difference between the hand gestures - the one finger, the two fingers, the middle finger or the V-sign, in fact, I almost thought they were all friendly under you saw the scowl on the face or heard the most rancid expletive - my face went red at times - definitely not my sort of expression.

Middle finger the police

The Dutch have however taken the middle finger gesture to heart and to the law; after a lower court ruled that the middle finger was extremely impolite but not insulting, the appeals court overruled this affable view with a treatise that dictates that making this gesture is insulting, injurious to the honour and good name (of the police?) and hence illegal. Visitors to the Netherlands, be very afraid.

The man who made the gesture to the police would be doing jail for 3 months for other criminal offences which now includes the hand gesture - I am beside myself and caught in intemperate antipathy - someone really went to court twice to prove that a frigging middle finger was legally insulting?

I think I would end this with the Daily Telegraph - Alex cartoon of the 16^th of July and just see what a finger put up by a cricket umpire for an l.b.w. can cost you when you happen to be in a auction, unbeknownst.

Courtesy of the Daily Telegraph - Thanks!