They say you regret the things you don’t do in this life, far more than those you do – but in my case I’m not so sure this mantra always holds true. Sometimes, it would be nice to be able to turn the clock back and insert some additional wisdom into one’s original decision making processes.
And sometimes you wish the ground would just open up and swallow you whole rather than face the consequences of whatever awful thing it is you may have just done. In those moments the cliché above, as with most clichés, is about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
Either way, it’s hard not to regret some of the capers I’ve been involved with during my motoring life. Some of them have provided memories that, with hindsight, seem quite amusing to reflect upon many years later. Some of them, on the other hand, are plain horrific to recall. What you are about to read is a mixture of both.
As I write, my driving licence has no black marks upon it, something I’m quietly chuffed about. Given that cars continue to become faster by the day while the cameras become more prevalent, and smarter by the minute, staying clean is no easy feat. My licence has not always been quite so virtuous, however. Indeed it was removed from me entirely once, for a few days before Christmas back in the mid-1990s, and it’s fair to say I’ve had some lucky escapes over the years, with three events in particular that could have turned out far worse than they did.
