I am learning to drive which on London roads is the same as learning to be OK with eventually dying. My instructor is a kind man named Shamim,
He has three children, none of whom I will recognise when I turn up to the funeral, in disguise, to hide the fact that I was the one who stamped on the accelerator instead of the brake at the roundabout at 8am, and launched us both into the side of an 18-wheeler.
Shamim has put his life in my hands nine times. On the fourth lesson, he didn’t touch the wheel once. Sometimes my job is stressful
But I won’t die if someone fucks up, unless the person who manufactured my mouse accidentally programmed it to explode the millionth time it was depressed.
It will eventually break: this is what they call manufactured obsolescence, which is a nice way to look at your own mortality, and a lot of syllables for two words. Lana Del Rey told us ten years ago that we were born to die, but I was a decade more beautiful then, and the phrase made me dance.
Shamim stopped giving lessons during lockdown because the government recognised how dangerous I was to him, but I had known it all along.