It was only a few months ago - just shortly after the great bathroom disaster - that I pulled into a parking space, turned off my beloved Audi's deep rumbling engine and allowed a decision to be born. I would no longer drive. This decision was mulled for at least a good 20 minutes before I decided to get home and let everyone know.
By the time I got home I was shaking., I gave myself a glass of Chardonnay - in one of the lovely green crystal stemmed glasses inherited from my grandmother when she opted to no longer drink, then died at eighty.
And there it is - the evil figure - I am now 80 years old. In the past few months I was finding driving more and more frightening. Was I driving the Audi - or was it driving me? Had I become a bad driver - or was everyone else behind a steering wheel dangerous ? The rumour went round that I was prepared to sell my Audi...
This decision is, of course, an imposition on my children as now my transport has to be organised. However, an earlier decision - that I needed carers to help in my daily life - proved very useful. Most of the carers have their own cars and are happy to take me shopping or to the pub. My favourite outing is now a trip down to St Astier where I collect my usual papers and some cash - New York Times and Liberation - and then sit in the cafe with a glass of wine.
Oddly, one of my favourite drivers is the painter - a Dutchman with blue eyes to die for - who is fixing the upstairs bathroom. He takes me down to St Astier in the Audi (which he is hoping to buy), we collect our newspapers - The New York Times, Liberation, Sud-Ouest, sometimes The Economist - and settle into the cafe - outside usually. He lights up his cheroot - an odour that reminds me of my Dutch grandparents - and , in the middle of the Dordogne, talk to each other in Dutch.
"and , in the middle of the Dordogne, talk to each other in Dutch."
ReplyDeleteloved this particularly :)