On passing my driving test & celebratory noodles.

Living in a fairly rural area, the best part of five years have been spent trekking to and from a very rural bus stop (so rural that in fact it has not even reached the marked title of an actual bus stop, and remains a bend in the road that you have to sweet-talk the bus driver into a quick standstill. Failure to do so leads to being dropped in the next lay-by, and having to tackle a bramble bush headfirst. This is followed by several muddy fields either plowed or filled with curious sheep, all the while feeling like a miniature Bear Grylls).

Thus the past five years of my life have been ruled by bus timetables (I can tell you exactly when the 55 passes the stop prior to my colonized bend in the road, and time myself to be ready and waiting approximately four and a half minutes in advance).
There have been few occasions when the bus has simply not arrived, or dismal Sundays spent meandering the high street and stranded in town, due to the one-every-three-hour rule on the day of rest. The mile in between my house and my bus stop has also proved perilous in the dark, when matched with a glaring pair of red headphones yanked up to full volume and cars not fully expecting a schoolgirl wandering country lanes in the dark. Countless arguments have arisen with my mother, over wearing the fluorescent & flashing battery powered vest she kindly purchased (ever the agreeable teenager, I stated that I would rather end up face first in a bonnet than sink to such crimes against fashion). Countless arguments have also arisen over mad dashes to the bus when the agreeable teenager forgets to set a timely alarm, with numerous pitiable pheasants taken on the death toll of such morning pursuits. This is all without mention of the extortionate fares of £7.50 per day, making my gym-goings suddenly very precious.
Having struggled under the woes of a teenager, a Rapunzel stranded in her rural castle, you can imagine my delight at receiving my first car after my seventeenth birthday, accompanied with driving lessons. These extended over the next customary 6 months, or 40 hours expected to pass ones test. These then extended for an additional 6 months.

I wouldn’t consider myself a poor driver. I’m not overly nervous, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel and nails furiously nibbled at every red light. Nor am I dangerous, for I certainly don’t tackle sharp bends at ’60 accompanied by a shriek of glee. I do however buckle under pressure (I turned to faithful old Rescue Remedy in my final two tests). The first was failed rather admirably – I simply didn’t pay attention in the navigational section, and came to a slittle confused stop at a roundabout as a result, A cheery examiner, described by my instructor as looking ‘as if she should be knitting shreddies’, told me she was certain I would pass next time).
Sadly this didn’t quite follow suite, and the following three passed with heightening nerves and wallowing disappointment, growing with every trip to the DVLA website.

All that aside, I do now stand the proud owner of a pass certificate, to match my proud owner of car status which, after a year and a half, I finally am able to decorate with garish swinging die (I’m going to signpost that as the plural of dice), and countless tins of fruit pastilles as procedure in any car.
Accompanied by this pass is are the celebratory noodles I banned myself from having a good 8months ago, after the soul crushing failure of my first test. A self confessed picky eater, I do have some credit to my habits and taste. Having scoured the aisles for the weekly grocery shop, cooked and cleaned for about 6 years, I admittedly don’t see much point in eating that which doesn’t please my palate. Hence my Wagamamas order has been nitpicky and consistent for the past few years

phad-thai-no-egg-no-shallots-no-peanuts-whole-wheat-noodles – please !

comes out in a sort of trance, or chant as if opening a hidden door. (Ali Baba reference, which I was continuously placed in front of as a child, in German no less) (sadly they are also not offering wholewheat noodles this season)

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So, after having to turn down several other group expeditions to Wagamamas with an embarrassed mutter about jinxing driving tests and black magic, I finally have my celebratory noodles!

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