Nervous Brake Down

With a brand new car beaming up at my apartment from the car park below, I could put it off no longer. With so much free time on my hands, I had to go for a drive. Alone. After six weeks I have at least learnt which side of the car to enter. It's quite odd really. I feel like someone recovering from amnesia. I know I know how to drive, but I feel I have to learn again.
In order to get downtown, I have to drive out of the car park, turn right (remember, to all English readers that's like turning left). The speed limit is 25 miles per hour (honestly). Then I have to turn left (that's like turning right, but with a filter light it's difficult to mess up). Then it's straight all the way. The whole journey takes about 15 minutes if you stick to the speed limit, and about five if you don't.
Parking is completely free and there are car parks everywhere. Most aren't even multi storey. It's like a children's driving course, so why I have made such a big deal about it, I don't know. I couldn't have been more proud when I turned off the engine than if I'd won the Pulitzer Prize for Driving. (Now, there's a thought). I celebrated by buying four items of clothing I have no need for.
The journey back was equally simple. I could get used to this! I'd be on the freeways in no time! (Give or take a year or two). But just as I pulled up I noticed a terrible smell of burning. I leapt out of the car, sniffing like a bloodhound in the hope it was my apartment on fire, not my beautiful car. Alas no, it was definitely the car, although thankfully there was no smoke, so no fire.
Eventually I realised what I had done. I had driven all the way back with my handbrake on. Ironic since in an automatic car the handbrake is about the only similarity to a manual. That evening I relayed the whole story to Joe, the kindly salesman who rang to see how I was getting on. He was his usual sympathetic self. Probably figured if I keep on like this I'll be buying a another new car in no time.