It seems a bit odd, learning to drive in one’s thirties. Readers will wonder why I have put it off for so long. The answer is that, as Eliza Doolittle thought, it is jolly nice being driven around in the back of a taxi. The expense of the fares was justified by the cost of car insurance, petrol and Ken Livingstone’s road toll.
In Italy where I spend my holidays it was oh so much easier driving a motor scooter, particularly as a motor scooter could take you to parts that other vehicles couldn’t reach, such as the marina or the old port where there is very little space to park and where, during high season, cars are not allowed.
But this summer I began to have second thoughts. Sitting on a scooter wearing a large helmet was so broiling an experience that it was akin to taking part in some mad doctor’s experiment to test the heights of human endurance.
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