I’m learning to drive at the moment. For a number of reasons, I never really got around to it whilst I was 16 and living in the UK. Now I’m learning to drive in Germany, in German, at 32. This is tricky. It’s tricky because you can easily confuse concepts like “Verbot” and “Gebot” when you’ve only been speaking German for a little while. That causes you to never drive on the right-hand side, instead of always driving on the right-hand side, much to my instructor’s consternation. I also seem to be the only person of my age that my instructor has ever dealt with, as he seems genuinely surprised that he has to instruct me how to drive instead of idly watching as I do it. Still, exasperated and grudging instruction from behind a smartphone is better than none at all, and I’m hardly spoilt for choice in the small place I live in.
The grand idea was that I’d be able to drive before the baby comes. That’s been blown out of the water by work commitments (slightly) and Brexit (hugely). Having dropped everything non-vital between January and March to focus on getting my German citizenship. But enough of that. I said I wouldn’t talk about Brexit anymore.
Instead, let’s talk about this baby. It’s late. It’s late and I’ve got the next week off work because we’d anticipated that it would already be here. It’s late and there’s only so many times I can check on the chilli peppers I’m trying to grow in the new greenhouse. It’s late and there’s only so many times my wife can play patience/solitaire on the dining-room table (over 800 times by my reckoning). It’s late and there’s only so many times, please, God! Only so many times that Aurelia can play the same song over and over and over again. It’s late, and I’m off work and Aurelia’s off school and Andrea’s obviously off work and we’re all. Just. Waiting. For something. To happen.