Bragging time. I have run with the lights on First Avenue (New York's Pamplona) from below 14th Street to the high Nineties - mid-afternoon - without catching one; I have made as many as fourteen (well, twelve greens, one yellow, and a sort-of-red) zipping downtown on Park Avenue late at night; I have lived and driven like a native in Mexico City and Sao Paulo. I'm good. If you want an entrant for a Seniors urban demolition derby, I'm your man.
On the other hand, I still don't have a book to my name. So maybe this proves the theory in reverse, and raises an interesting question. If I obey the speed limits, and stop changing lanes, will I get published?
Semi-related suggestion: possibly poets would be better drivers if they were to only drive vehicles with "poetical" names. Stay away things whose names are all numbers and initials, or tetosterone parades. None of this RSX300ES/GT, Dodge Magnum, Ford Eradicator or GMC Supra Dreadnought Mark II stuff. I can't find a perfect name for a poet's car, but Avalon and Esprit have possibilities. And I remember that, years back, Datsun (now Nissan) introduced something to the Japanese market called the Sunny Excellent. Left-hand drive, Hugh, so if one is still available, you can handle it in Scotland. And the name itself doubles as the first line of a haiku:
Sunny Excellent
scene on the Tokaido road
Hiroshige rocks
Michael Cantor
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