During lunch one day a few weeks ago, a colleague was talking about the trepidation of her husband using her car.
It was her first car. Her pride and joy. And letting someone else drive it was a big thing.
Not that he actually drove – he hasn’t even started lessons, however will be learning in the future.
Having never owned a car, it wasn’t something I could particularly relate to. I go everywhere by public transport and I can’t say I feel any particular ownership about the single decker bus that plies its trade on the 200 bus route.
I’ve never had much desire to own a car either – something that was re-iterated to me as I sat in the back seat of a friend’s vehicle on Sunday as we came back from a BBQ in Cambridgeshire. We would have gone by tube/train/bus if it had just been Catherine and myself, but the offer of a lift was made and it would have been rude not to.
We’d been stuck in Tottenham for what felt like an eternity, moving half a mile in just fifty minutes as four lanes of traffic were condensed into one. Later, moving a lot faster, I noted we were going roughly the same speed as several cyclists.
I can’t deny it. I spent much of the journey as we crawled along in a metal box wondering why anyone would want to drive in London. Car ads show the delights of driving on the open road, and yes that’s pretty good. But my weekend experience in London’s traffic certainly didn’t want to make me rush out and buy a Passat, a Ka or anything.