First attempt, seven minors. I waved one last goodbye to my driving instructor and his diesel Polo, ran inside, grabbed the keys to my own car and hit the road right away, unsupervised for the very first time. A fully qualified driver.
This was 22 years ago, three months to the day after I turned 17. I don’t recall the details of that afternoon and evening but I do know I was picking friends up within the hour. I also know I took the motorway because it was faster, even though I’d never driven on one before. After doing the rounds with three mates on board, I took to the local country lanes and carried on into darkness – another first for me.
Nothing really happened. We had a little fun, I dropped the guys home and continued on to mine. I was soon safely in bed, dreaming of the wonderful driving adventures to come. But reflecting on that evening two and a bit decades later, it seems ludicrous that only hours earlier I was setting the gas, finding the biting point, shuffling the wheel, mirror, signal, manoeuvre – driving like a learner, in other words. I’d satisfied the examiner and that was that. I was free to go.
