The weather this morning was cold, frosty and foggy and so I cast around for my gloves. I couldn’t find my usual black leather pair so dug out some old ones. I’d previously used them for some thorny gardening work and then had to wash the mud off them, dry them and then, because they were looking rather tatty, smarten them up with black shoe polish.
They kept my hands from freezing as I scraped ice off the windscreen, so that was good. The problem was that the washing process had left them quite stiff and lacking in sensory feedback.
It was like driving in oven gloves.
Highly polished oven gloves that appeared to have a friction-free relationship with the steering wheel. Oh, and did I mention it was foggy and a bit icy? My hands were clenched on the wheel tighter than my bum cheeks. Just to be clear, my arse wasn’t clenching the wheel, it was merely responding to fear. Although, thinking about it, I would have probably got more tactile sensation from my bum than I was getting through my hands, so it might have been worth a shot.
I removed the gloves fairly early into the morning commute because my palms were getting sweaty – more through anxiety than the gloves’ toasty, insulating nature.
I know that people say that you shouldn’t do drugs, have unprotected sex, vote for orange-faced gibbons and so on, but I also want to add ‘don’t polish your driving gloves’.
There. I feel I’ve made the world a safer place.