Recipe for learning to drive standard real fast:
Go climbing after a week off due to exceedingly stupid foot injury.
Don't eat too much beforehand, so that you end up with a fairly empty stomach afterwards.
Follow Linda and Darren to the "Living Well" to play "Dirty Bingo" and encourage the cross-dressing nutcase renamed Shirley who owns the place to flirt with your equally underfed boyfriend, telling her strange secrets like "his other nipple is more sensitive."
Watch boyfriend get elected the "ex husband" for the night, play some bingo, play one round of moderately embarassing pool, yell happy retorts at Shirly who really has way too much fun holding a microphone.
Watch aforementioned boyfriend enter the "ex-husband" round of bingo, in which he takes off an item of clothing (pair of shoes, pair of socks, no jewelry) whenever an "N" is called.
Listen to people start shouting for more N's.
Watch the teasing bastard start with his shoes.
Watch Shirley stuff a shot of Amaretto down this week's ex-husband's throat with each trip to hand her clothing.
Grin happily when Dave is standing naked before the bingo cage and Shirley turns to look for his girlfriend and announces that she understands why I must be walking bow-legged, whore that I am.
Giggle proudly as he is made to wander the entire bar with a bag, collecting money for charity.
Donate lots.
Realize just how drunk he really is, and that when Shirley asked "are you driving" and he said "No", this was in fact swiftly becoming truth.
Deeply enjoying seeing him stagger and giggle and do that bobbing thing with his neck that he does whenever he's out of his gourd.
Respond to Linda and Darren's query of "can you drive a standard" with "I'm going to learn how real fast" and proceed to not finish the last dregs of my second pint of beer since I haven't had anything to eat and quite frankly I've been having a bit of a time with the two flights of stairs to the bathroom myself.
Help Mr. Pyke, now fully dressed much to everyone's disappointment, stagger to the parking lot.
Watch the way his suddenly too-big hands fumble with the courtesy parking fine envelope.
Giggle as I use my spare key to unlock the car door, and adjust the seat far too many times.
The beer-and-two-thirds is helping my nervousness.
Suddenly I remember motorcycles from a decade ago, and this gear-shifting thing makes a touch more sense, but the clutch is very long to release.
Suddenly I'm driving towards Jarvis, terrified to just under out of my wits.
There's a truck in between me and where I want to go. I have to turn.
Bite my lip, and turn.
Change gears.
Stop at the lights. Shift into first again, a little less bone-jarringly this time.
Continue to make random squeaking noises.
Do this, with a mistake here or there like shifting straight from second into fourth a couple of times, and sit with the clutch in at all the lights because you're shifted into first the whole time because otherwise it takes you too long to get started when the light changes and being the uncoordinated maniac that you've always been, changing into first when the opposing light turns yellow is WAY too complicated right now.
Get on the highway, your additional nervourness causing you to jump to fifth gear instead of third.
GO down the highway.
Start getting the hang of this clutch thing.
Get home.
Let Dave park.
Stand waiting on the balcony for him since your keys are still in the ignition.
Feel mighty damned proud of yourself, even after the adrenaline has worn out.
After all, daddy always said you were incompetent, and here you are mastering feats of coordination and hoping to my favourite faeries that the car still starts when we try it today.