Learning to drive in the 21st century So I've taken the plunge, and started. I called my instructor, Paul from the AA, to arrange a good time for the lessons. Being older and more sophisticated than most learners I had thought I might have the lessons in the evenings, in that forlorn lull between leaving the office and the first Martini. Paul wasn't so sure. "I think, at the start, it's better if it's daylight," he said, in a patient voice with which I sensed I would become familiar. I could see his point. How about we do it instead of the morning commute? I asked. We could start at Chalk Farm and finish at Victoria. I think, at the start, it's better if we don't go right through central London. On reflection I saw that this was probably wise. On our first morning he picked me up and drove me to Brondesbury Park, a quiet suburb of north-west London with suitably quiet side streets. The only cars on these roads are driven by learners, punctuated by the occasional terrified delivery man or dog-walker. We pulled up on a deserted crescent. Paul got out. After countless metaphorical instances, I found myself for the first time literally in the driving seat. Adjusting my mirrors and moving my seat back and forward: quite thrilling. I was ready to go. Being a man handling a machine, it seemed likely that I would have a prodigious talent. Sadly, to my surprise, this did not make itself clear straight away. In fact there were several aspects to driving that had barely crossed my mind. Gears, for one. In an age of iPads and robotic keyhole surgery, a manual gearbox is surely a clunking steampunk anachronism. You can control a drone bomber with your mobile, but you still have to use a lever to tell the engine of your car which cogs to use. Preposterous. I wanted to tweet my disgust immediately, but Paul assured me that they were a common feature of cars and that I would quickly have them under control, though it was advisable to put my seat belt on first. So it proved. From neutral to first, and first to second. I was a natural. More of a problem, during the first two hours, was braking. Braking and steering. Also indicating, checking my mirrors, and finding the "biting point" of the clutch when setting off. "It's all about feeling your feet," Paul explained. The two best students I've had were a ballet dancer and a footballer. They both had excellent feeling in their feet. His expression suggested that "journalist" did not come with quite the same physical cachet. For the first lesson, Paul thought that the main roads weren't quite ready for my all-or-nothing braking style. We stayed in our crescent, and at the end of each lap we would swap seats with a humiliating (for me) trot around the back of the car. Paul would then drive 20 metres back to the start of the crescent, park, and we would repeat the procedure. To the outside world, my laps must have looked peculiar. Rehearsals for the early scenes of a heart-warming comedy about a blind racing driver, perhaps, or a thoughtful drama about a man recovering the use of his hands. But my brain was frazzled by the effort of concentration. So many things to worry about inside the car; how does one find the time to look at the road? I hope it gets easier. Over the next few weeks I will keep you updated. Wish me luck, and avoid Brondesbury Park.