At one time I became rather reluctant to drive a car. What I'm actually referring to, is my friend Ana driving the old car and not me at all.
Perhaps I should explain that at the time Ana was learning to drive. Now, before you misjudge me, by making assumptions about the basis of my reluctance to teach her, let me assure you that it had nothing to do with Ana's talent, but rather my own. I refer to my ability to shout and scream. I was afraid that during one of our driving sessions I would suddenly turn into the screaming banshee that occupied the front passenger seat when I was 17 and learning to drive.
"She who must not be named" may possibly have been an older sibling, who did not find it all amusing when I continued to stall the motor car at a busy intersection, eight times in a row.
My hysterical laughter kicked in by the time her angry screaming reached 60 decibels. After that episode, I developed a fear of driving that kept me from trying for my licence again for two years.
So whenever Ana and I went out for a driving session, I found myself listening for tell-tale signs in my voice indicating that I was becoming the driving instructor from hell. ©