Of Prozac and the Possibility of Punctures

Today, the wonderful and astonishingly brave Dylan took me for my second driving lesson, having finally recovered from the first one.
Last time he attempted to teach me I reversed into someone's carefully tendered hedge, and this time round? The car slipped from first gear into reverse almost by magic- I have absolutely no idea how this happened, but I'm willing to believe it was a technical malfunction; in no way was reversing whilst queuing for traffic lights anything to do with me playing nervously and absent mindedly with the gear stick thing. Remember the Ann Summers advert? Although I think that was a hand brake, not a gear stick- its still close enough.
I'm easily distracted.
But everything worked out fine with the cars, noone got hurt and nothing was damaged- not a single solitary scratch. Which is good, partly because I have my doubts as to Dylans tyre changing ability- his skills lie in other areas, of course, and also because I spent most of the money sitting idly in my bank account on drunken eBay shopping, something which has rendered me with a life size cut out of Jason Orange.

**cough**

Unfortunately, Dylan still seems unreasonably keen on teaching me to drive, something which I gave up as a lost cause back in my heyday two- years ago, due to my complete incompetence. And, of course, my growing awareness that it was scary to watch, and doing bad things to the blood pressure level of my aging instructor, who still sends me Christmas cards every year. After all, as he said, "repeatedly staring death in the face causes one to become somewhat attached to their companion".
Yes, I really am that bad.