I wish I had a boy-chaffeur to drive me around while I run my errands. I'd sit in the back seat and apply red lipstick from a Chanel compact and not have to worry about observing road rules and watching for oncoming traffic. I like going for drives when you have great music playing and it's sunny or even when it's gloomy outside and it's gloomy in your head and you need to be soothed by a fairly mechanical and rather intuitive activity like driving a car. I like to think when I'm in the car. Sometimes I cry. Once I cried driving home after picking up an awful essay from uni. A kind gentleman in the lane next door to me told me to smile at the traffic lights and all but offered me a tissue.
But on the whole, no, I don't like to drive. I have to fight the temptation to venture far off into space and daydream about pink macaroons and Chloé boots and whatnot in order to ensure my life and the lives of my fellow motorists are preserved.
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