My Dad was going to kill me.
I remember vividly my fist parental driving lesson.
It was a Wednesday afternoon, which meant games in the afternoon, or rather, it meant sloping off to the park to smoke joints with the cool kids.

After school had finished I made my way home feeling lightly toasted and that all was well with the world.
I got back and found that my Dad was waiting for me. "Come with me" was what he said, and as I recall, I wasn't sure why. We went down the garden, to the car, we got in and set off.
But instead of going right at the end of the drive, the route that would take you to, well, anywhere, we went left, down the bumpy track that leads to the reservoir.
This was all a bit odd, I thought to myself. I was getting a bit paranoid because although I knew where we were going I didn't know why.
We got to the end of the track and my Dad stopped the car and turned off the engine.
"Right; out you get."
Oh God, that's it. He knows. He. Knows.
I didn't know what he knew, but I knew that he knew, and that was all I needed to know.
He'd driven me down a quiet, deserted lane. He was going to kill me, and that was that.
Needless to say, I was quite relieved when he told me to get into the driving seat and began my first lesson in the ways of the automobile.
( IHaveABadFeelingAboutThis most likely working from home on, Thu 22 Apr 2010, 13:20, 1 reply)

**dies laughing** Brilliant.
(ifonly, Fri 23 Apr 2010, 21:43, closed)