Awkward, awkward, awkward

Gosh, but yesterday was embarrassing.

You see, due to my incredible driving skills I had managed to bash poor Ermentrude (my superGerman mom-mobile) as much as three times in six months. The people who were insane enough to insure me had kindly allowed me to get her panel beaten, and I was pleased that there were people who are even more insane and had agreed to lend me a rental car (which, by the way, also took a few hits...Drat that grass-covered pothole.)

Anyway, yesterday it was time to bid adieu to the rental and welcome Ermentrude back to the fold. I was not at all sad to do this. I felt a bit like Fred Flintstone in the rental - having absolutely no power, I got into a few of those awkward situations where you think you are going to overtake someone, then find out that your car is not up to the task, so instead you drive abreast glaring at each other for a while.

Also, it did not have the tight turning circle I am used to. As a result, there was a nasty occasion when, at the height of rush hour, I found myself stranded on a traffic circle after discovering that my intention to zippily turn around was not matched the car's abilities. As a result, cars queued behind me for several long minutes as I fumbled around with the gearstick, eventually executing a clumsy 16 point turn before proceeding at 30km per hour. Not an ideal speed when there are frustrated motorists, dying for their hometown sundowners, baying for your blood.

The only good thing this car had going for it was that it's aircon was so loud it successfully drowned out the sound of Leya's Car Cries.

Yesterday was therefore an understandably big day for me. It would appear that the excitement affected my reason and ability to think clearly, for I decided to take Leya along with me to fetch the car; after all, there's nothing like a lovely excursion to a panelbeater for a six month old.

Perhaps it was because I was focused on her that, when the time came to pay my bill, I sat her down on my service consultant's table. "This is your invoice," he said. "Yes," I agreed. "Do you love it here on your desk?" He looked a tad confused before he understood that this last comment was directed at Leya, currently perched on his table and reaching for his pen. Realising that he was not, apparently, as taken by the cuteness of my future executive as I was, I put her down on the floor to play. And then - and I still don't understand why I did this - I joined her. It was only after I had been relaxing cross-legged in his office for a full minute, and I heard his voice filtering down from above - he, after all, was still seated on a chair - asking for my credit card - that it dawned on me that this was not really appropriate behaviour.

Mustering what dignity was left, I then tried to drive my car out of the lot. I say tried, because my time behind the wheel of the Flintstone-mobile had addled my brain and left me uncertain as to how to drive an automatic. There I sat, my feet pushing down simultaneously on the brake and the accelerator, and the car making a dreadful noise, while the bemused service consultant looked on, no doubt sure that he would be seeing me again in just a little while. After a minute I gave up and, striking a blow to feminists anywhere, gave a little wave of my hand and said, "I seem to be unable to drive my car." In such situations, I have learnt, a little haughtiness helps - is it not better to be thought a mean cow than a useless airhead? I think so. My approach must have worked on Mr. Service Consultant, because with admirable forebearance he leaned forward and explained, "Well, this is an automatic..." I won't bore you with the rest of the details of my driving lesson - suffice to say after his instructions, I decided it would be best to do away with the confusing notion of a second foot. So, with great effort (my legs are still encased in their pregnancy cocoon, so crossing them always involves a bit of a heave and huff) I tucked my left leg underneath me (noticing, as I did, that the tear in my jeans made my thigh bulge unflatteringly out of the fabric - something which I did not want Mr Service Consultant to see, since I think his view of me was already rather dim).

And so I zooted out of the parking lot - only to phone back half an hour later to enquire whether he had seen my phone.

I truly wish my car dealership worked with another panelbeater. This was a bad way to start a relationship which I fear is going to become long-standing.