Is this the way to Amarillo...?

… again?

Driving is of course fraught with danger and divorce, particularly when heading Beyond Familiar Territory.

I was definitely not made for driving – I hate it, and never have any idea where I am. On the other hand George, whose ridiculous eyes cannot sensibly be inflicted on a steering wheel, automatically commits a journey to memory after a single trip. Hence George navigates our outings and I hyperventilate them.

As for SatNav, what’s the point, I’ve always thought. I already have to concentrate Really Hard on the road - how could I watch a second version on screen at the same time? George, however, has long dreamed of satnav, foreseeing the end of all those hysterical Completely-bloody-lost-again Exchanges we… exchange.

And Loh! Conveniently timed for an imminent far-flung birthday party, our junk mail this week klaxoned a portable satnav on very special offer. We found our way to it Hotfoot. It sounded perfect – George would consult the screen held on his lap, and I would listen to the soothing yet no-nonsense Voice of Brian. George merrily set up the Essential Stuff.

Initial test-drive was disappointing – thirty kilometres into the wilderness, Brian shut completely up. This turned out to be a faulty fuse in the car cigarette-lighter-charger, but we had to ricochet around thirty or forty other and very different kilometres before we made it home and found out. After all, we’d both been too mesmerised by satnav to take any notice of the actual roads...

Our second satnav trial was much more fun – George fascinated by the detail onscreen, and I building up an easy reapport with Brian. I picture a sort of Peter Donaldson (R4 newsreader), as he gently tells me





‘In 250 metres, turn lef... D475.’
and reminds me as we approach, ‘Turn left... D475.’ ‘Turn LEFT!’

Then, as we sail past the turn he says (without a word of reproach), ‘In 100metres, Turn left... D476.’ He Knows Where We Are, and is determined to persuade us into a leftly direction. If we’ve bizarrely ignored his instructions for the back road, he knows exactly how much leeway to allow before, ‘Perform U-Turn... whenever possible.’

And if you ignore that, you can practically hear him flipping pages growling, ‘Where the bloody hell are they going?’

Every so often, there’s a twinkly burst of strings to Warn us. We’re not sure what of – we did think speed limit entry, exit, breach… Our own readings don’t always agree, but who are we to question the Mighty Brian?

Of course, Wikipedia is but one source of worrying tale:

“Misdirection
A number of road accidents in the UK have been attributed to misdirection by satellite navigation systems. On May 11, 2007, a driver followed satellite navigation instructions in the dark and her car was hit by a train on a rail crossing that was not shown on the system. In Exton, Hampshire,the County Council erected a sign warning drivers to ignore their "sat nav" system and to take another route, because the street was too narrow for vehicular traffic and property damage resulted from vehicles getting stuck.[
On March 25, 2009, a man drove down a steep mountain path and almost off of a cliff after he was allegedly directed by his portable GPS system. He was finally stopped by a wire fence. “

Well Pchaw! That kind of thing happens to us all the time…

For after just one (correctly-charged) outing, I have overcome my misgivings about this robot machine. I think Brian will be the end to much disagreement on George's part, and the perfect companion if I want to run away and join the circus.

Now – how did George actually plug it in?

VITAL Papers

‘But WHY do you want to change your driving licence, madame?’ said the surprised voice. ‘It’s unnecessary - England is in the EU!’

‘You’re Right!’ I nearly said, ‘What the hell am I doing, voluntarily plunging into the tortured bowels of French bureaucracy?’

But I didn’t say it. Because my English licence is quite old – one of those pink and green papery things coming apart at the folds, and there's certainly No Photograph. (Did we even have cameras)? So it's instantly suspicious.

And you’re never sure of the reaction it’ll provoke when stopped routinely by the gendarmes: we've had hilarity, fascination, incomprehension, Outrage-with-Severe-Reprimand for even bringing it to France (he was an unusually unpleasant specimen having a bad day)… But I don’t want to be flung into an oubliette because of my annoying driving licence.

The Préfectures in France are the Houses of Mass Administration. In March this year I made my first foray into their Website/licences/driving/resident/foreigner/EU/shortperson… This revealed an interminable list of Essential Documents that must be Translated by approved professionals and Sworn to by approved professionals who Mustn't Know me At All.

Naturally I gave up, but re-attacked a month later by phoning for clarification. A very friendly bloke narrowed the List down to proof of address, old licence and a photo - Just take them down to the Préfecture and they’ll send me a French licence. Simple!

Then I forgot about it. Until this week when with uncharacteristic Dynamism, I assembled all the docs, including terrifying photo (“you mustn’t smile, madame!”) and phoned to check they were open that afternoon…

But it seems every member of The Administration has a different set of rules. That day's member, after my insistence on carrying it through, passed me on to a colleague with special knowledge.

The colleague pointed out the need for another document (there's always one more) with proof of Maiden Name. Have you ever noticed that Maiden Names are instantly jettisoned from British passports and the like? Eventually I found some old GCE certificates, and post-eventually, birth and marriage ones (I’ll take them all).

I couldn’t go that afternoon, though, because this person was adamant that an appointment was imperative. ‘OK then – when can I come?’ (Hoping she wouldn't say Wednesday afternoon, as I had a trim & blow dry booked). 'End of September, madame'.

Damn! What a complete waste of Dynamism!

Still, it will be properly sorted out then, because every administrator we've met here has been charming and helpful in spite of our incoherent jabberings.

And of course, it gives me time for a load more attempts at the Terrifying Photo…