On being a driver

Some time ago Paul and I decided that one of possible (at least partial) solutions to my moving-to-a-small-town paranoia would be for me to learn to drive.
I was a bit reluctant, as 14 years ago I already tried and failed miserably, and I've never actually felt the need to drive – or maybe I just talked myself into not feeling the need to drive after the aforementioned failure. Nevertheless, with the prospect of moving out of a big city with an excellent bus network I did concede that driving would definitely make me feel much less like if I was giving up my independence and I actually got all excited about the whole project.
So I applied for a provisional license and, since it’s half term and we have more free time, we’ve started driving lessons yesterday. And it’s going really good, but I have to say that I’m a bit worried...
Now, many people had said that him teaching me to drive would definitely be an interesting experience if not a trial to the relationship but I did not think about it twice cause they meant him getting annoyed with me getting things wrong and such. Which he doesn’t cause he’s the most patient and laid back person I know. And I don’t get that many things wrong and such. What I do however is talk.
‘Why are you waving at me stupid bitch, can’t you see I have an ‘L’ so I obviously don’t bloody know what I’m doing?’ The poor woman was actually thanking me for letting her through, happily she was beyond ear shot. Paul wasn’t. But it gets worse:
‘Yes Anna, maybe if you had put the clutch down.’
‘Handbrake you daft cow!’
‘Don’t be a mean gear box and don’t make that noise anymore please’.
‘You’ll be a good car now and you’ll start properly, ok?’.
‘Why, why, why are you doing this to me?’
And so I’m starting to wonder if him teaching me to drive was such a good idea after all…