Driving test

When I told a friend I was planning on buying a car she told me that having a car in London was a luxury. I laughed at this. Having checked out the prices of second hand European cars I knew that I could get a BMW for less than a meal at some restaurants. So with brutish stubbornness I picked up a nice little 318. More specifically I bought ‘Leroy’, a black model who in a previous life looked like he had been used to sell crack to kids.

Almost immediately I discovered that my friend was, in fact, annoyingly right. She was not warning me about the toll it would take on my wallet, but rather my mental health. Having now lived in London for almost four years I was hanging by the thinnest of threads as it was.

I find it impossible to believe that the wonderfully optimistic Wombles of Wimbledon could have hailed from anywhere near the DVLA head office. I left there in floods of tears after being forced to use my married name on my new license. Even though I no longer use the name and every other government organisation recognises my legal right to use my maiden name, the DVLA wasn’t having any of it. As the man serving me ate his own ear wax as though he was tasting some kind of sample menu, it seemed unlikely that he would be familiar (let alone interested) in my constitutional rights. For the record I was not the only one in tears that day in Wimbledon. The man being served next to me found it to be all too much that the man serving him spoke less English than he did. This was quite an accomplishment given he himself may actually have been the voice of the Swedish Chef in The Muppets.


On the way back from the DVLA in my new car I realised that I lived in the congestion charge zone. Whilst I understand that you may find it hard to muster sympathy for a woman who has to suffer the stress of living so centrally, regardless of where you live in London you should be able to empathise with the notion of being ripped off. I was unable to drive my new car home unless I paid £8. This was more than my bumper bar was worth. As it turned out I was able to apply for a resident’s discount. Not much consolation as I was already paying £80 per month council tax in order that I may NOT use the local schools, doctors or any other community service Kensington & Chelsea offered. I actually joined the Notting Hill library to feel like I was getting my money’s worth as a resident. I might even start ripping out some pages to even things out.

The next test on my nerves was applying for my parking permit. This step came the closest to breaking me, and I have shopped at Primark on a Saturday. It started out well enough; I had got there early so I could experience the thrill of being the first person to take a numbered ticket. In Australia we do this in delicatessens, so you can imagine my disappointment that no one offered me any small goods. My ticket joy was short-lived when I discovered that my insurance papers (a pre requisite for a permit) had not come through via fax to the council as promised. After repeated phone calls begging the insurance company to fax the papers and sprinting every 30 minutes to throw more coins into the parking meter outside, (I didn’t yet have a permit) a council worker finally came up to me and said, ‘You know our fax isn’t working, right?’

So I left without my permit, £6 worse off and still unable to park my car anywhere.

The act of slipping into my car spot at work however made my attempted murder of a council worker seem like a distant memory. The thought of being able to get into the car at the end of the day got me through some of the unnecessarily long meetings that come with my job. As I walked back to the car I fantasised about picking up groceries on the way home and so avoiding having to cross Notting Hill Gate with an eight pack of toilet roll under my arm. I looked at the driver’s door; there was a massive dent in it. London - 1. Sally - 0.