THE DRIVER’S WIFE

Toe­ing the party line

F1 Racing - - INSIDER -

Which should be rea­son to cel­e­brate. One of the tough­est things a driver’s wife has to face is the prac­ti­cally nonex­is­tent so­cial life. I bet you think our life is all glam­orous galas, VIP par­ties, and ex­clu­sive cock­tails on su­pery­achts? Well, so did I! But driv­ers should come with a big “No Fun” fore­head tat­too, so girls are fully warned.

Ba­si­cally Amor is al­ways in train­ing – pre-sea­son, mid-sea­son, pre-next sea­son… He never wants a drink, or a late night, or to go out where some­one might be smoking. Whereas I only re­ally come alive after dark, on a red car­pet, twerk­ing in my Louboutins. Amor is the great­est guy, but he’s also the only driver who doesn’t un­der­stand the obli­ga­tion of go­ing out on the Sun­day of the Monaco GP, when the en­tire COUN­TRY is par­ty­ing.

But when the invitation ar­rived for Amor’s team-mate’s birth­day bash, he just couldn’t say no. Not be­cause we are neigh­bours in Monaco and he’d know we were ly­ing about be­ing out since our lights were on, but be­cause of all the me­dia furore about their on-track fight­ing, end-of-a-friend­ship, dag­gers-at­dawn stuff. The decision to ac­cept wasn’t even Amor’s, I think his man­ager RSVPed be­fore the invitation reached our let­ter­box.

So Amor and I were go to a party mid-sea­son! I might have got a lit­tle over-ex­cited. I co-de­signed a black full-length fan-tailed gown for the ar­rival, and a red se­quinned back­less mini dress for after the aper­i­tifs. Then an hour be­fore we were due to leave, Amor an­nounced there was a Flint­stones theme, grabbed one of my fur gilets and told me he’d wait for me in the car.

Per­haps it was be­cause we ar­rived two hours late, but there was no red car­pet, no pho­tog­ra­phers and no se­cu­rity. Some woman ac­costed me with a bone neck­lace to ‘get into the spirit of things’ and nearly ended up with a bone en­ema. Then two sickly pur­ple cock­tails later I spot­ted Amor on the dance­floor, red, sweaty and shirt­less un­der my gilet. Be­fore I could send some­one to re­trieve him, he was rounded up by six other un­der­dressed and rhyth­mi­cally-chal­lenged driv­ers into a bounc­ing rugby scrum.

It was like a flash­back to my 14th birth­day party. I’m sure I saw some­one vomit in a pot plant.

A quar­ter of an hour later, Amor was passed out face-down on a leather ban­quette and I had to have him car­ried to a taxi. I never even changed into my sec­ond out­fit.

So as I sit here with my green tea while Amor snores on the bath­room floor, I’ve had a rev­e­la­tion. It’s for the best he doesn’t go out. He was the se­ri­ous sporty teenager who missed out on drunken binges, bad danc­ing and in­ap­pro­pri­ate be­hav­iour. And if he missed it at 17, it’s cer­tainly not worth start­ing it now!

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