And I more or less was. 
There was one day when I was honked at TWICE in the same roundabout (sorry!) but for the most part, I felt comfortable behind the wheel and unfazed to see cars coming at me from the right instead of the left. 
All that until this morning when I had to drive back to Stansted and drop off my car. Knowing my proclivity for unintentionally taking the scenic route, I left off around 5:30, thinking 2h would be more than enough time for a 60-mile trip. 
Ahhh...I hadn't anticipated driving in soul-shaking pitch black loneliness with not a headlight behind or ahead of me. Or the huge fog patches that rolled over me in staccato bundles, hiding the earth one second and then revealing it — usually with a curve coming up — the next. Or that one of the major highways, the M11, would be ENTIRELY UNLIT. Seriously. I could count on one he the number of areas with lights along my way. 
But it's that rush of adrenaline, of being out lord knows where and just a few fog-filled feet away from crashing that makes the whole thing so exciting. Or rather, it's the thrill of parking the car and looking back and saying, 'I cheated injury and death one more time.'
By the time I filled the car up with gas and got to the airport, I was running behind. Dangerously behind. My face a combination of sweat and embarrassment, I explained my predicament to people and asked if I could jump in front of them. Bless their kind hearts, but every single one of them said yes. 
And now, thanks to their good graces, I find myself in Eindhoven waiting until the bus to take me to Amsterdam. 

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