Lovely Roundabout

There is a large traffic island near to where I live. I pass it nearly every day and always look on it fondly, because this is no ordinary traffic island. Built out of Westmorland stone, it is covered in trees and shrubs and flowers and rockery plants. In the spring, when the bulbs burst into flower, it looks particularly delightful. In the summer, herbaceous plants wave in the breeze, and when these finally die away there is a display of autumn foliage and berries to delight the eye.

This traffic island is a Leicester landmark. I not only admire it, I am also proud of it. This may make me sound like the ultimate nerd, but I don't care. There is anger in my bosom because the council transport division wants to replace it with three sets of traffic lights, ‘to increase the traffic flow’. When I first heard about this dastardly plan, the blood traffic flow to my heart almost stopped.

Leicester has traffic lights like centipedes have legs. Visitors rub their eyes in disbelief when faced with the sight of Belgrave Road, which looks like an amber, red and green hell. These lights stretch to the horizon and beyond, possibly to infinity. Recently we Leicester citizens have seen the proliferation of painted road markings. Every main road seems to have been painted with diagonal lines, boxes or shark's-teeth patterns, and bigger and bossier signs. They'll be painting ‘Stop smoking!’ or ‘Have you brushed your teeth?’ on the damned roads next.

I had better admit right now that I am not a driver, but I have owned a car. It was a cabriolet, grey and sleek, and when I saw it in the window of the car showroom I went in and bought it. (I'd only nipped out for a loaf of bread.) I imagined myself behind the wheel, wearing a headscarf and pigskin driving gloves, driving skilfully down a dangerous mountain pass, somewhere abroad, on my way to the coast. I was chatting and making jokes in fluent French to my companion. (Remember, this was only in my imagination; in real life my French is très mal. I once ordered a meal for my children from a French menu and was presented with a huge basket full of raw vegetables that had only recently been torn from the ground.)

I got myself a provisional licence and asked my husband to sit next to me while I drove the sleek, grey cabriolet around the Leicestershire countryside. When I drove along the grass verge he would gently suggest that I might find it more comfortable to drive on the road. When I exceeded the speed limit (by 30 mph) he hinted that it might be a good idea to ease my foot off the accelerator. Emboldened by my jaunts in the countryside, I decided to take a crash course, at the end of which I would take my driving test.

I was recommended to go to a certain driving instructor. Let's call him ‘M’. He had a very good reputation and was responsible for many first-time passes. Unfortunately, the week of my crash course was also M's disaster week. Everything that could go wrong with a man's life went wrong in that week. I spent the week driving M from the site of one domestic and business disaster to the next.

It has to be said that I was an unruly pupil. I resented stopping at traffic lights and seemed congenitally unable to keep to the speed limit. Also, I hated driving behind anything. Poor M, who was famous for his cool nerves, began to bite his nails. By the seventh day he was twitching somewhat. On day eight I took my test.

Mr Smith was my examiner. After eleven attempts to do a three-point turn I offered to let him leave the car, but he declined. M watched from the first floor of the examiner's headquarters as I stalled the car across two lanes of the dual carriageway. For the first time in a week he was smiling.

I have never driven a car since. My children were thrilled to get their hands on the sleek, grey cabriolet but, after a few weeks of nightmares in which I saw them come to messy ends in the sleek one, I put it up for sale. ‘One careful lady driver. 1,000 miles on the clock.’ Naturally, nobody believed it and the car sold for far less than I paid for it. So much less that I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night and remember exactly how much less.

On Sunday, the ‘Save Our Roundabout Campaign' held a protest picnic on the island. I meant to join them but completely forgot. But I want them to know that I'm behind them; so is my family. My ex-brother-in-law has said he willl ‘do a Newbury' and tie himself to the tree that stands in the middle if the bulldozers dare approach. There is so little that is beautiful in our cities in 1996, so little to gladden the eye. So I beseech Leicester City Council to spare our lovely traffic island. I'm not above threats, either. Destroy that island and I may take up driving again.