Through a series of events whose generation doesn’t matter much here I now find myself driving a different make of car, briefly. This one makes charming winding up and winding down noises as I accelerate or decelerate and I imagine myself as one of those animals who drive in a children’s picture book:

lowly worm; the busy world of richard scarry

I learned to drive in a Ford Fiesta, which was a hatchback where I lived — here I think we say compact car. The first time I drove my husband’s car, it felt wrong; it felt very much like I was a usurper, and the car loyally resisted my efforts to find the biting point for the clutch (approximately 2 millimetres below not having a foot on the pedal at all, what larks - I want to say I laughed, but the time I stalled coming out of the driveway onto a busy road, I cried instead with frustration. What do I do? I wailed and he said just drive it, which is accurate but supremely unhelpful. Funny how those things do not necessarily go together, accuracy and helpfulness).

The car my insurance has given me is smaller than the one I usually drive, and it feels quite zippy for lack of a better term. It is all I can do to resist trying to go round corners on two wheels. It also has a licence plate from a different province however the combined effect of all this is less of being a usurper and more of being an impersonator, or maybe an interpreter. To what extent are we who we are through the accoutrements with which we surround ourselves? To what extent am I?

It’s a fine holiday from my usual self, at least while I am driving.