Short weeks (following a bank holiday) are good; shorter weeks (truncated by a Friday off, to start a week of holiday) are even better.

Since getting my license last week, there has been no stopping me. P has been royally ferried around town, on trips necessary (shopping, recycling) and otherwise (Where shall we go today, then?)

Of course, the oddest thing has been to take the step of driving on my own. It’s fine - no bother, I’m not nervous, and it’s actually pretty enjoyable in a “Woohoo! I’m driving!” sort of way, once you get over the inevitable realisation that most in South West London (at least our bit) drive gigantic hummers and range rovers and the like, which are imposible to see around at junctions. But it is a bit odd. To have been learning and practising solidly for those months with someone in the passenger seat means it’s strange when the seat is empty enough to allow my handbag to rest there.

The strangest of all is the silence. I’m used to random conversation over the gearchanges (not about them) and that’s all-too absent when I’m driving in my car, alone.

It’s like Madness meets Heart. Sorry.