I’m married to a P-plater.
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I can’t believe I’m writing that.
No, she’s not 18.
No, you would not see the green blur of her P-plates, flashed off her VY Commodore, flying down your safe, quiet street.
Reaching the big three-o, later in life she sat behind the wheel.
But, like many.
Even in regional capitals there are those who have never had the chance. They might even have their L-plates, but life had other plans.
For my wife it was never straightforward.
There were the lessons.
Me trying to instruct – with analogies.
“Driving is like a tank,” I would start.
Cue frustration, screaming.
The millimetres, between our car and another; at an angle, in a blind spot, petrified mid-parallel park.
There was time off road.
There was a baby…I remember a wedding, somewhere.
Enough to put the brakes on for anyone, let alone all worry for crashing and hurt and doubt.
Through turns, eyes in the mirror when indicating, holding the red needle at 110km/h.
In blinding sunlight she once swerved, just in time to miss two cars stopped in the middle of a national highway.
But my wife drove.
And one day, on windscreens she stuck up Ps.
Strangely, inexplicably because, like many things, there’s no sure way for extraordinary change.
Because the extraordinary can exist in what might appear routine or, because of age, out of reach. To others, and you.
But I’m married to a sexy, three-point-turning P-plater.
And now, she can get her own bloody McFlurrys.
Chris O’Leary