Middle Child is learning to drive. Don’t tell him (he doesn’t always read this, he might never know!) but he’s actually quite good. Now if he’d just resit his theory (taken rather brazenly last September, over-confident but woefully underprepared), take a couple more lessons and book a test, he’d probably get himself a license just like that.

Just the other day, he was driving with his L plates, and he sagely took his time at a busy junction. It wasn’t his priority and it wasn’t safe to go. Even if it had, technically, for an experienced driver, been safe enough to go, I’d argue that only the driver whose turn it is to make that call should ever be making that call. His caution was rudely called into question by a rageful would-be psychic who simply knew (because obviously he could magically see through us) that we could go. When his angry beep failed to cause us to drive into oncoming traffic just to clear his path (terribly inconsiderate of us, you have to admit), he proceeded to demonstrate how real men drive by screeching around us (luckily there was no-one coming the other way) and cutting into the traffic on the main road, utterly disregarding the conventional priority rules. We overtook him (safely) at the next set of lights.

I used to be a terrible driver. Mainly because I was horribly nervous, constantly convinced that all pedestrians were tired of life, that all cyclists were kamikaze, that all motorists were on an emergency mission upon which the world depended… I wasn’t keen on granting anyone’s deathwish, and I never seemed to be entrusted with time-sensitive planet-saving missons which required the kind of driving usually associated with homicidal idiots (or would-be psychics). It didn’t help that I never truly got to grips with changing gears, thereby regularly getting in the way of these very special drivers who had crucial places to be Right Now. And every time these aggressively self-important drivers expressed their angry displeasure at my excessive caution at the sight of a roundabout/pedestrian/cyclist/bus/car/dog/pigeon I would lose even more confidence and conclude that I simply wasn’t cut out for being in control of a vehicle. But I was a home birth midwife so I could hardly quit. How else was I going to get to my client at 2am on a rainy winter night with all my stuff? And of course, as time went by, I improved. An automatic car was a game-changer, not gonna lie! But also years of practice. Now I’m a reasonably competent driver, much more able to read the road.  But I never get road rage. I think it’s because, having been pointlessly beeped at so often over the years, and realising how little it helps, I actively choose to let things go. I mean, if the driver in front of me isn’t going at a green light, it could be because they’ve seen something I haven’t. Or they’re just distracted, it happens. Either way, beeping at them never helps. Now your sluggish starter is stressed AND distracted; and if the unseen hazard is still an issue, then your slow coach still won’t be able to move off, no matter how inconvenient that is for Speedy MacBeepy behind him. It’s not that I don’t get annoyed, obviously, just that I don’t feel the urge to outwardly broadcast my grievance. We all make mistakes, it’s no biggie. The biggest one is believing that we’ll get there faster if we drive like an F1 racer. But that’s simply not true, or at least not true enough to risk a serious collision just to shave 2 minutes off a journey time. The trick is to leave in good time, assuming it’ll take longer than you hoped, rejoicing when it takes less than the time you’ve allocated.

Thing is, when you’re driving, you’re warm and dry and safely cocooned. You can listen to your favourite podcasts, or a carefully curated selection of songs, or your preferred radio station, you can sip your coffee, chat to friends who aren’t even in your car; the point being that you get to your destination with mighty little effort and zero hardship, so being Zen shouldn’t be that hard. Not like the good old bad old days. When you listened to whatever was on the radio (always The Archers if you were into radio 4, invariably the adverts if you were into commercial radio), or a tape on repeat, and you got proper lost. And, much as I love cycling, I’m regularly jealous of warm-dry-comfy car drivers when I’m cycling in the wet-cold-soggy rain. When I’m soakingly bedraggled I confess to being fractionally less cautious on account of really needing to get out of the weather. I expect sympathy not beeps. Crazy, huh? When I’m the cozy driver, I don’t honk at damp cyclists. Trust me, it never helps. The day that furious tooting causes my car to take off vertically, and sail over stand-still traffic, I’ll go batsh!t crazy. Every. Single. Day.

Bottom line, there’s no need to achieve a personal best!  Everyone should arrive safely and calmly, wherever they go and however they get there.

Ok, so I love swimming. And look, I’m not proud of this,  but I get hideous swimming pool rage. To be clear: you’d never know, I don’t go round cursing at the eejits who unwittingly slow me down when I’m trying to achieve a decent time. But I do occasionally experience some unchristian thoughts…

Swimming etiquette is a thing, at least when the pool is clearly for swimming, as opposed to splashing around on a summer day (there is no excuse for ploughing into leisurely swimmers or small kids in any pool which doesn’t have designated swim lanes).

Swim lanes exist to segregate people according to their capacity to negotiate 25m of water in a timely, streamlined manner. People who are blissfully unaware of the heinous crime they are committing by swimming breaststroke in the fast lane should, well, stop doing that.
I hear how crazy that sounds. I really do. But I suspect I’m not alone. Look,
it’s not like I’m such great a swimmer but… the timer is on. Literally. I am very much going for a PB. Every Single Time.
And how can I achieve that if I’m stuck behind someone who is having a leisurely paddle. It should be noted that it’s hard to overtake such a person because, slow as they are, they are taking up the entire lane and you risk getting kicked or punched by wide legs or outstretched arms. Plus I’m risking collision with people swimming in the other direction. Pool etiquette doesn’t encourage reckless overtaking.

So there’s a part of me that understands road rage. The almost uncontrollable urge to achieve that personal best. And howl with frustration when the unsuspecting chillax swimmer in front just doesn’t get it. But you smile politely. You do not shout or swear at them. You wouldn’t dream of acting out your impure, ungodly thoughts.  You make peace with the fact that you are not Adam Peaty (who has trained a gazillion more hours than you ever did and who is welcome to swim breaststroke in the fast lane!) Today you will not shave 5 seconds off your personal best, and that’s ok because, news flash, nobody cares a hoot!

We learn, growing up, not to reveal the uncharitable, uncouth, mean aspects of ourselves (and yes, we all have thoughts we’re not terribly proud of) to other people. We learn to stay civil, difficult as it is, because it’s the right thing to do. Because it promotes social cohesion. And because we try not to be hypocrites who judge others harshly and publicly for mistakes that we have been known to make ourselves. 

But the Internet has kinda given our mean thoughts a convenient anonymous platform, so we can act out like untamed little toddler tyrants who throw tantrums because they don’t yet know better. And because they don’t care. This anonymity allows us to be our worst selves without any fear of having to hear the other person’s point of view. We don’t have to put ourselves in their shoes and wonder what we might have done in the exact same circumstances. Toddlers have tantrums because they just really want what they want, consequences be damned, but if you’re old enough to drive, you really ought to have outgrown this stage and have developed a capacity for empathy and restraint. What kind of example was our diabolically lucky lunatic setting Middle Child with his demonstration of toddler-esque impulsiveness? We happily criticise the next generation, but if we don’t lead by example, what do we expect them to learn? Our kids learn a wee bit from what we teach them and a whole lot more from what we do. If we want sweet polite kids we could do worse than modelling grown up behaviour when we drive. Thus we could demonstrate care and consideration for those that are more vulnerable. We could model non-toxic ways of manifesting frustration with others. Like counting to 100. Backwards. In Greek.

Parenting often involves unbelievably skilled and diplomatic conflict resolution, but we seem to lose all our hard learned skills when we get behind the wheel. Even if our kids aren’t in the car when we’re having an angry day, someone else’s kids are learning that it’s OK to behave like a school bully because clearly, there are no consequences. Equally, if we want to teach them how to behave in the online bubble, we must teach them how to behave when they are in the confines of the car-bubble: think before you beep.

There was clear and present danger? It has passed. You survived. Don’t beep.

You’re in a hurry? Leave earlier. Don’t beep.

You have X-ray vision and can see past the slow coach in front? Fake news. Don’t beep.

You’re normally a nice person but today you’re tired and stressed? Stay nice. Don’t beep.

They beeped first? Are you a parrot? Don’t beep.

You’re mad at the universe and beeping angrily is the only way you can express yourself? Try harder. Don’t beep.

Simples!

Ps until Middle Child gets that license, he remains a kamikaze cyclist. If you see him, please, take a deep breath. Several deep breaths. I thank you warmly.