University is an inevitably expensive business. Expenditures can total a ridiculous sum if you’re not careful, and consequently, you may find yourself cowering beneath the formidable beast that is Regret. ‘Regret’ and ‘skint’ is not a nice combination, yet unfortunately, it is one that I know only too well.
The reason for this? Driving lessons. You see, I began learning in my hometown, and failed my first test on the way out of the test centre (Grrr). Since I was going away to university, I booked a second test for the Christmas holidays. I failed, this time on the way into the test centre. (Grrr again.) And ‘ouch’, actually. Now that stung a little. Predicting the emergence of a much unwanted pattern (go to uni, come home, take a test, fail, back to uni, etc etc), and with the DSA customer service reassurance that the waiting list in York would be far shorter than in my home town, I decided to find a new instructor and continue learning to drive there instead. I wholeheartedly believed that I would pass within a month. Ha! What was I thinking? Unbeknown to me, it wasn’t going to be as straightforward as I so hoped it would be, and that was all due to my poor choice…. in driving instructor.
If you’re a friend of mine, you will have been forced to endure my lengthy moaning sessions on the weekly woes of learning to drive with, putting it politely, ‘Madam Mistake’ (my damn mistake). And for the benefit of those who have not experienced these soliloquies of anguish (rightly greeted with rolling eyes and sarcastic pseudo-violin accompaniment), I shall enlighten you.
Her average fifteen to thirty minute late arrival to each lesson was entirely infuriating, and entirely predictable. I remember gasping with absolute disbelief the two times she arrived only five minutes after our arranged meeting time. An apology was consistently expected, yet consistently remained undelivered, with any possibility of acknowledgement (on her part) of her unpunctuality batted swiftly away by her well-practised subject-changing stress-infusing prattle that was cued on my opening of the car door. And the time was seldom made up. ‘I do my pupils’ lessons back to back – so and so will be waiting.’ A pre-paid one hour lesson would too often become a ‘bad luck, you’ve already paid for it’ forty-five minute lesson. I soon came to realise that achieving any sort of reasonable rebate or compromise was hopeless. I would state my obvious disadvantage to her, get snubbed, and leave it there. (Oh, how my uncharacteristic submissiveness in hindsight appals me.)
Now, get this: several stops during each lesson were made so that Madam M could ‘get her little jobs done’, i.e post letters, pay in cheques, or even buy a flaming chocolate bar and a Coke for goodness’ sakes. And why didn’t I say anything then? Perhaps along the lines of ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I was under the apparently false impression that I pay you £16 an hour to drive for an hour, not to stop and wait while you browse the confectionary counter at your leisure!’ Because I’m an idiot. Because I didn’t want a confrontation. Because not saying anything was easier than having to endure an hour with the consequences of attempting to make a stand. You see, a couple of times, I got so annoyed with the absurdity of the situation that I did say something, and I was met with an unanticipated hour of silent treatment (yes, that’s right), with the occasional grunted direction, and an atmosphere in the car so thick that only a Machete could slice through it. Suffocating. Please, do try and understand my passiveness. I strive for justification even to this day, because I get angry with myself each time I question my disgraceful lack of assertiveness.
‘Why did you put up with it?’ I hear you scoff.
‘Why didn’t you just change your instructor, you fool?’ I hear you sneer.
With pre-paid block lessons, a test booked in her car, and the fear of how much more time and money I would have to spend on getting used to yet another car and another driving instructor’s methods was enough to make me feel trapped, and silently surrender to her corrupt ways. Pathetic.
Such different methods of driving to what I had previously mastered with my old instructor were set into motion by Madam M, with her ‘no turning back to your bad old ways or you’ll fail’ philosophy scolding me at every junction. I lost my confidence, and was getting nowhere.
Lesson after lesson after lesson. And then finally came the test.
Fail.
Now that physically ached. If only I passed back at home. If only I hadn’t screwed up my tests at the DSA test centre fence on both occasions. If only, if only, if…
No, stop it. ‘If’ is pointless and should be squished.
After wiping away my tears of frustration, I pulled myself out of my slump of depression. You see, I could have given up. I could have saved myself a lot of hassle, and a lot of money. But giving up would have meant that all the hassle I had already gone through and all the money I had already parted with would have been pointless. The thought of the countless hours of problematic learning with a(n attitude problem)atic instructor (for infinite reasons more than I have had chance to explain) has created a drive in me (no pun intended, honestly) to go on until I succeed. Such a common venture, obtaining a driving licence, has become to me an entirely significant ambition. It feels like I have been held under water since I began learning, and won’t be allowed up for air until I pass, whenever that day may be. Metaphorically, I will hold my breath until I pass, because when I do, that gasp of fresh air to my lungs will be more glorious, more fulfilling, and more extraordinary than it would have been had I only been holding my breath for a short amount of time. And that’s what I keep focussing on. Good without bad is non-existent, and good can only be appreciated when the bad has been experienced first.
In the words of the diesel engine advert jingle, Hate Something, Change Something, Make Something Better. Get out of a bad situation the moment it is realised, and get back on a decent track. I did this far later than I should have done…
…but I did it nonetheless. Yesterday, I passed! And yes, the gasp was glorious. That was test number… (ahem)… actually, let’s not dwell on that trivial detail. I passed back at home, with my old instructor, and I cant help but think that my whole York learner driving experience was all a waste of precious time and precious money.
The moral of my story is this: what you spend your money on is your choice. Just be sure to spend it wisely, not regretfully. That way, there will be satisfaction and achievement consoling the expenditure. Be it on driving lessons, going out, shopping, whatever. University is expensive – just don’t make it regrettably expensive. Good luck – and happy spending!
