This has been a week of firsts as a driver. Not surprising, given that I have only been licensed to drive a motor vehicle for about six months.
In recent days I scraped ice off a windshield and drove through a little snowdrift, both for the first time. I also learned how to turn on the tail lights, but I don't really want to talk about that.
Most importantly, I learned how it feels to see those flashy blue and red lights go on in your rear view mirror, and know that the whole town is driving by, looking at me in Old Bluey, cruelly and unduly branded a lawbreaker.
At least my coworker was there, to take half the shame. But maybe that's worse, because everyone probably thought we were both drunk and on the town. You know. Reporters and their alcoholism.
Which I wasn't. And we weren't. And we aren't, I swear. We were coming from Inuktitut class.
Ilinniarvingmit tikittunga.
Well, that actually means I arrive from the learning place, but I've only had two classes and the bylaw dude stressed me out.
I never know how to handle those situations. I saw bylaw dude approach. He looked gruff, serious, and in control of the situation.
I wanted to hide in my parka hood. All I could think about was the accordion cassette in the tape player. I accidentally, but cheerfully, said two bad words and giggled a lot.
For the record, only two boxes were ticked off. Both were beyond my control, having to do with the insurance and registration. No bads on my hitherto pristine, albeit short, driving career.
At this point I will direct your attention to the majestic Ford Ranger in the photo above. Old Bluey. Our moderately-trustworthy Arctic steed. The first truck I ever drove in all by myself. Or parked by myself. Or pumped gas for by myself - although that it debatable, given that the gas guys see me coming a mile off and have figured out I don't really know what I am doing.
