Her Majesty's Joke

This week, HRH played a cruel joke on us. I'll tell you about it, but -- if you haven't read it -- do read about Greece in April, Ellie's tales of our wonderful time visiting the land where East meets West.

So the joke involves four pieces of paper I got this week. You may know that I turned sixty in early April, and I was looking forward to the benefits of joining the OAP crowd here. (That is "Old Aged Pensioner" in Brit-speak.) I trotted down to the local Council offices, brought a long a picture and the passport, and asked for my free bus pass. That means that all I have to do is to be aware of the schedules between our village and High Wycombe -- where the bank, supermarkets, and other modernities lie -- and I can do without the driving, the parking charges. And -- best of all -- I can ride for free! Yay, Bruce!

And I was in London last weekend -- more about that forthcoming -- and stopped by at the railway ticket office to purchase my senior discount card. It cost nearly $40, but is good for 30% on train journeys, so I'll make it up just going in and out of The City, let alone any longer journeys.
















Sofar sixty is looking like a good thing, right?
Then the Royal Mail delivered my third new document: an International license. Having learned from a Greek car rental agency that we couldn't drive in his country -- see, I told you to read Ellie's Grecian blog entry -- I had applied for an international license, and here it is. Life is good: now I can drive in Azerbaijan and Yemen!


















Then, last Saturday, a very polite police women stopped me to ask me to switch down my bright beams -- not a violation, just a request. She asked to see my license -- just a formality. I gave her my Vermont credentials, and she asked where I lived and for how long. Now comes the joke!

It seems as though my Vermont license was completely valid here for my first 365 days, and then became instantly invalid; same with Ellie. We have been driving the past four months with invalid licenses, and therefore with invalid insurance(!) I was treated with great pity and consideration, but immediately hauled off the road. This is a joke, right? No.

Our car sits forlornly on the front grass. After a three-day trip to the national Driver Agency HQ in Wales, Ellie was able to get us on the fast-track to provisional licenses. But we are subject to the same treatment as your average 17-year-old, and have been told to bone up on the rules of the road. The British are famous at standing stoicly in endless queues, and we are learning how. We can't take the written exam till June 3 and -- if we pass -- Lord knows how long it will take us to get road tests. We will meanwhile drive only when accompanied by a friend, and will proudly display large LEARNER signs fore and aft. If we flunk either test, we will be predictably surprised, angry, apologetic, and determined. And we'll do it again. Sometime, we hope before the frost is on the pumpkin, the Queen will again allow us to enjoy motoring on country lanes unaccompanied.

On second thought, maybe we should consider going to Yemen to drive. . . .?