Top Gear

On taking driving lessons

I've always felt insecure behind the wheel of a car. For years I was happy as a passenger, looking up from under glass, safe and secure in the hands of someone else. It was a comfort to be escorted from place to place without a worry in the world. A trip to the shops? There was always a parent nearby. Day trip? What are friends for? There came a point when even my younger brother would ferry me from place to place. And, if all else failed, I could always rely on good ole fashion public transport.

Before I started at University I was given driving lessons for my eighteenth birthday. It didn't take long to gain a little confidence on the road, but I never developed a taste for it as a recreation - which some have found a little strange. Perhaps it was for the best though, in our planet-conscious times.

Where I lived, most young men jumped at the chance to drive at the very first opportunity; in fact, by the time I first turned the key in the ignition most of my year were already zooming around in cars of their own. A new car brought with it a series of perceived perks: it acted as a symbol of responsibility, independence, and masculinity.

As an undergraduate I found that I no longer had the time to take lessons, and the driving was stopped in its tracks. The lessons didn't seem to be progressing, and I had a suspicion the instructor was taking me for a ride, stalling for time. For awhile I felt that I was going round in circles, and there was no satisfaction in putting on a seatbelt and starting up the engine.

The same is largely the case today. My interest in cars is purely functional. There's the odd American model here and there that catches my attention, classics from the fifties and sixties, but that's about it. But now I'm driving again nonetheless. Through need. Through necessity. And I do seem to derive a small amount of pleasure from getting it all right. There is a sense of freedom and independence behind the wheel of a car that is difficult to simulate elsewhere; but there's also something else: a sense of mastery. Whenever I'm driving I get a pleasant sensation from the fact that the car actually works; I like the fact that something so inherently large and formidable is so easy to control. Well, I say easy, but my driving examiner might have something to say about that.

Tomorrow morning I am sitting the first in what may be a series of driving tests. It's close to Christmas, so the roads are likely to be crammed with impatient shoppers unfamiliar with the city's roads - but I've always relished a challenge. In fact, the anticipation of the test almost makes me feel excited to be driving a car. And yet, I'm not driven by a need for speed, or a hopped-up adrenaline rush - but simply the sensation of control that I feel behind the wheel.

Before now, the nearest I've been to mastering the open roads was listening to Kraftwerk's Autobahn, or reading J. G. Ballard's apocalyptic Crash. But what will happen when I finally pass my test? Will I find myself perusing Auto Trader and talking about power-steering with friends down the pub? Will I spend lazy Sunday mornings paging through a monthly subscription to Top Gear magazine? Maybe not. I think it's time to slow down.

Keeping Time

How many times do I look at my watch on an average day? Too many to count, I suspect. I use a watch to navigate a path through my day: calculate where I should be at any given point, and what I should be doing. But watches have more than strictly practical applications; they are often incorporated into social interactions via our body language. There's nothing quite like glancing down at a watch to express boredom or impatience. I catch myself glancing at my wrist whenever I feel anxious about something, although I rarely - if ever - register what time it is.

A few months back I found myself slumped on the couch, watching a stand-up comedian on late-night TV. A five-minute set on eyebrows and body language. And although I forget the man's name, he offered some keen observations on the role eyebrows play in our everyday interactions - whether with others or ourselves. For instance: he suggested that to rummage in one's pockets with eyebrows furrowed gives an outward impression of concentration; to grope around with eyebrows raised suggests mental instability, or even a lecherous state of arousal.

One of the observations that struck me was his link between eyebrows and the art of checking the time. The comedian claimed that for a human mind to register the time, it is essential that the eyebrows are raised in a moment of clarity and comprehension. If not, if the eyebrows remain passive, you are sure to find yourself forgetting what you saw and looking down in another attempt. I can't help but agree with this acutely observed point. To see it is five o'clock and raise your eyebrows is like an act of affirmation.

But I'm tired of my watch. I can't bare to look at it. Ten years of same-old-same-old. I'm in need of change. Something new to look at. Something that will make checking the time exciting again. And, perhaps most importantly, something that will make me raise my eyebrows. In short: a new watch that will help me to remember. Or at least that's how I justify it to myself.

So, with not a moment to lose, I began my search: and I think I have found an answer. My recent interest in Bauhaus minimalist design - the pretty balance between function and form - has manifested itself in a new object of desire. A Stowa Antea wristwatch: simple, beautiful and accurate. Oh, but did I mention expensive? (Time is money, after all.)