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. Nor was there any surcease at night. While my friends were all going about in their comfy air-conditioned cars and arriving at dinner cool and soigné, I looked like the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.
Motor scooters are no longer glamorous. They are out. There. I’ve made my judgment.
It was different in the days when you didn’t have to wear a helmet. Girls let their hair flow back in the wind. The whole scooter experience was reminiscent of Audrey and Anita and Brigitte: Beauty before all else.
Then the government forced everyone to wear a helmet. Not only does a helmet flatten your hair but it makes one resemble a household appliance. As for safety, I had my worst and only accident post-hideous-headgear.
Thus I resolved on my return to London to pass my driving test.
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