‘Keep the car straight, you’re going to need to go up into third gear,’ my instructor said.
I felt a slight panic – I had only known the comfort of first and second gear. So, I rehearsed the dance moves in my head and felt ready.
‘Now, Hannah, now,’ he suddenly shouted, watching the revs scream into the red. I made the shift and edged away from the driver behind, who seemed visibly annoyed that I was only doing 23mph on a national speed limit road.
Not that I cared: I felt like Evel Knievel. We could have broken the sound barrier at any minute.
Feeling triumphant, I glanced across at the passenger seat where my instructor/boyfriend was taking a deep breath, his white knuckles clutching the armrest.
We’ve navigated long-distance and moved countries together, but teaching me to drive at 30 was a test neither of us expected.
Growing up in a town with decent bus routes and friends who had no desire to learn to drive meant when I arrived at university, I had no inclination or spare funds to get a car. Moving to London in 2015 only reinforced that – I was now living in one of the best-connected cities in the world.
But there were moments I wished I had a licence – like the time I walked three miles through Cotswolds fields in the rain after missing the last bus. Or having to rope flatmates into helping me carry IKEA furniture back home.
It even affected my relationships – a romance I was having with a guy from Dorking fizzled out because I couldn’t reach his farm without practically earning a Duke of Edinburgh along the way.
By my late twenties, embarrassment had crept in and I had ready-made excuses for anyone who asked if I had a licence, such as: ‘I live in London!’ or ‘It’s expensive!’
And it is. Lessons average £1,724, before you even think about a car, insurance or petrol.
By the time I turned 28, I had used all the excuses I could, and was determined to learn.
But then I met my current boyfriend, and before I could take any lessons, life took an unexpected turn.
We met at a salsa club in Soho in 2022 while he was visiting from Australia. We danced, flirted, exchanged numbers and after a heartfelt goodbye, we stayed in touch.
It didn’t take long for us to fall in love over FaceTime, and in 2023 I quit my job and booked a one-way ticket to give love a shot.
In all our conversations, driving hadn’t come up. So when, six months into our relationship, he suggested we drive from Melbourne to Sydney for Christmas, I had to break it to him: I didn’t have a licence and couldn’t help with the 10-hour drive.
He didn’t seem too fussed at first and we got by for over a year without me driving once.
But in 2024 we decided to spend the year travelling around the UK and Ireland, after buying a cheap VW Polo from a friend.
As the sole driver, his frustration grew, and as the half-owner of the car, I realised I actually really wanted to drive it too.
I ordered L plates, applied for my provisional, got insured and got learning. Thankfully, at 30, insurance is far cheaper than at 17, where the average policy price is £2,877 a year.
Due to our nomadic lifestyle, I didn’t think about hiring an instructor. Plus, my boyfriend had taught his younger brother in the past and was more than happy to step up as my teacher.
One week, I was dodging suicidal pheasants on Ilkley Moor; the next, navigating Manchester roundabouts. I’d tackled more terrain than most learners ever do. There were rows, slammed car doors, and an incident involving a bollard in a Tesco car park. We don’t talk about that bollard.
But that chaos was the secret to my success.
I was test-ready in a few weeks. The only holdup was the backlog at test centres, since most had waits of up to 24 weeks.
While housesitting in North Berwick, I checked for slots morning, noon and night until eventually, it paid off. I was booked for a Thursday morning in nearby Musselburgh.
We had two days to prepare for unknown roads, but I was used to that by now.
The night before, I’d deep-cleaned the car, added a new air freshener and fitted a second mirror (a must when using your own car on a test).
On test day, I drove us to the DVLA centre, my boyfriend beside me, and Ted the cockapoo we were pet sitting in the back. I waved them off as my examiner, Rory, checked the car and gave me my first task: Reading a number plate.
We chatted the whole way round, and I couldn’t believe how easy it felt. My manoeuvre was reversing three car lengths, ‘show me’ was turning on the wipers; and ‘tell me’ was measuring tyre pressure. I felt good, things were going great.
Back at the test centre, I braced for a twist. Surely it was too good to be true? Until Rory delivered the news – I’d passed. First time. Three minors.
For the final time, my boyfriend was more than happy to chauffeur me back to the house to celebrate. And I did soon after by driving solo to a McDonald’s drive-thru for a McFlurry run, windows down, and Chappell Roan blasting through the speakers.
For anyone putting it off, it’s never too late to learn.
I survived without a licence for years, but now, I couldn’t live without it.
We’ve started a new life together in Scotland, and I do most of the driving. I tell myself it’s for the practice, but really, I’m making up for lost time – and repaying the many debts of picking my boyfriend up from the pub, which he’s more than happy to cash in.
Now, responsibilities are shared and our relationship feels more balanced.
Driving has given me freedom, confidence, and the chance to pull my weight on a 10-hour road trip.
Next time we’re in Australia, I won’t be in the passenger seat. I’ll be driving us home for Christmas.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
Share your views in the comments below.
