Passage Four
Late last year,I needed to transport some furniture from our house in Sussex to my son's flat in central London. Ishould have paid a man to do it for me,but foolishly confident in my driving ability,I decided to hire a van and drive it myself.It was a Ford Transit 280,long and wide;you couldn't see
out of the back.You never really knew how close you were to anything else on the road.
Reversing in my home yard,I crashed into a small shed,causing permanent damage.At least I owned the shed.
I loaded up the furniture and set out.By now it was rush hour.My nerves broke down,as I steered the huge van through ever-shifting lanes,across oncoming vehicles,between distances of buses,at last to Charlotte Street.
Here,I found an available parking space.As I reversed into it,I noticed three people at a pavement cafe waving to me.I got out,trembling violently,like one who has just endured a stormy Atlantic crossing.“You've shifted the car parked behind you three feet,”they said,and it belonged to a disabled person.I examined the car. There were white scratches along its front bumper.It bore a disabled sign.So,now I was a bad driver and a bad man.Under the stern gaze of the three,I left an apologetic note on the damaged car's windscreen,giving my phone number.
I unloaded the furniture,dripping with sweat.Wanting only to escape the monster, I drove the van back to its base on the Edgware Road. On arrival,the hire man told me I must fill it up with petrol before returning it.“Just charge me,”I cried,still shaking with fear.He gazed at me with understanding.No doubt he'd witnessed others in this state before.“How aboutIdrive you to a petrol station,you fill up,and I drive her back?”he asked.
He danced the great van through the traffic so casually that it would have shamed me if I had not been so grateful.
48.On his way to Charlotte Street,the writer fel （ )?
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