Friday December 7, 2007
There’s a small band of journal/blog readers and writers, loosely tied, who’ve become a family almost, across two continents. I sit rather on the side of it all, joining in the fun, commenting and laughing, and commiserating all in turn.
I’ll be honest. I almost never think about it when writing here. I still hold to the quaint idea that a journal is a closed thing, used to record the days and doings of an individual, not those of a meta-group. I’m wrong, of course, but I make no apology for that–it’s my journal and I write what I want to.
Even so… One of our number yesterday failed her first driving test. We all of us sent hugs and commiserations and, still running today, accounts of our own experiences, in different countries, when undergoing this most basic and vital of all barriers to be overcome in the acquisition of full adult freedom.
I was brought up in a time when young people almost never had motor cars–too expensive for most of us. Like many of my peers I was happy with my motorbikes for years and years, passing my test when I was a young ‘un. Happy days, filled with memories of leather and sad captains.
When it came to the point where I wasn’t able to fall off safely, I discovered a loop-hole in UK legislation that permits qualified motorcycle licence holders to drive a 3-wheel tricycle. Just like a car but smaller and cheaper.
I drove a series of those until, in my mid-30s, my boss took me on one side and persuaded me that the dignity of my position demanded something less outre. Thus began a series of driving test failures. I was on the point of chucking the whole stupid exercise when finally, on a test where, early on, I fouled the reversing round a corner part, I said, loudly, “Oh,*%$# it,” and carried on driving to get the episode over, not caring, confident I’d failed and determined never to bother with it again. Passed with flying colours.
It’s a rite of passage, I suppose. Or something.
The author, webmaster, and minder of the cat