driving from the back seat

I am in the back of a car, on the left hand side—standing rather than sitting in front of the seat behind me. This is the side where I always sat as a child: my brother in the middle, my sister on the right, and me on the left. We are travelling along Park Avenue, one of the busiest roads in the suburb where I lived as a child. I am looking out the window at parkland, bush and the occasional house. I know that if I looked out the right-hand side window, I would see letterboxes of unusual shapes perched on curling chain stems, set in stone, or nailed into a fence. I become aware that I am the only person in the car, and that I am driving the car from my position in the back. I try to see the road ahead but my vision is partially obscured by the front seats. I can reach the steering wheel but have difficulty steering from this angle—my body is still faced toward the side window; only my head is facing forward. I wonder how I am going to stop the car or change gears; I am not really in control. A car veers out of line in the oncoming traffic, over onto my side of the road. I sound the horn and the driver looks cross. I motion to him that I am driving from the back seat and cannot change direction easily and he yells out, telling me that either I shouldn’t be driving or I should be in control of the car.