And so, it was of no surprise I was fuming, although I was not quite sure if I were mad at myself more or at the droning chants of the old man beside me.
You see, at the ripe age of one past thirty, yours truly has finally decided that I need to learn how to drive, the impetus being my Tasmanian winter holiday last year. Fast forward to the year 2010, I'd finally enrolled myself in driving school and arrived, after forty unscathed hours of practical training sessions, at my pre-test assessment this afternoon only to finally grace the kerb at a U-turn!
Apple, orange, bananas! While I don't reckon I need to prove my existence in this manner, that, unfortunately, rendered me a big F for F-A-I-L-U-R-E. Needless to say, everything after fell nicely into place according to Murphy.
Warpedly, it is times like this that reminds me of my favourite six-year-old. "You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocket ship underpants don't help..."
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