My first driving lesson with my father was my last.
Didn’t matter that it was on deserted back roads between sheep paddocks, that I really, badly wanted my license or that my father was a schoolteacher of many years experience.
(He’d even taught nine year-old boys how to make scones.)
Our one driving lesson ended with slammed doors, tears and bitter recrimination. I didn’t get my license until I was 24, years after I’d moved out of home.
We are of similar temperament, father and I (bossy, always right), and should never, ever share the same front seat of any motorised vehicle – be it ...