I want to drive. I love my city, I love that I can reach the other side of it in a twenty minute walk – but sometimes I feel a little claustrophobic. A few days after I passed my driving test I bought a classic mini, a beautiful little car that I fell in love with. I spent countless hours polishing it, restoring it, driving it. We took to the countryside, the motorways, the seaside. We went on holidays and night time drives and to friends’ homes. I sang in that car every single day, and I was in love with it. When I knew I was moving to the seaside it erased any need for a car, and I had to let my little Mini go. But not before a farewell tour, bashing around the Cotswolds’ hills and winding country road. Driving to me means trips to eat pub dinners, night-time tours of where we grew up, being able to stay at a friends past 4am.
Being a passenger is okay – I get to see the English countryside or American highways from the passenger seat, singing and watching the sights go by. I don’t mind too much. But being in the driver’s seat of my own car, to be in control. To be able to go anywhere at all. I long for it – the freedom of the road, the open fields, the cities I could go to. I want to rent a car this spring or summer and take it to Devon, the Lake District, Leicester. It doesn’t matter so much where. I just so desperately want to drive again.