One for the Road: Late bloomer

All my life, I’ve been, in some fundamental sense, a late bloomer. Which, lovely botanical idiom notwithstanding, has been no walk in the park.

I was the smallest in primary school, then the baldest for longest in secondary school.

When the roll was called on the first day of fifth year, I was like a tin whistle among the brass section.

Where the summer had brought a vocal breakthrough for the few fellow late-blooming brethren I’d had the year before, the holidays had failed to relieve me of my signature, oft-mocked, glass-shattering falsetto.

When I shouted ‘here!’, the form teacher made everybody empty their schoolbags in case somebody’s wee sister had stowed themselves away before leaving the house that morning.

(If you’re interested in hearing just how high-pitched my voice was, there is a video on PandaWatch2’s Youtube channel entitled ‘jump fail’. There you can watch – and hear – me trying to resist urges to cycle a bike off a shed roof, before eventually succumbing to peer pressure and nearly breaking my neck. It’s worth a watch.)

But, yes, no matter the theme of the party, I’ve always been late to it.

It’s as though mother nature has sent all markers of maturity to me with a dodgy courier, while ensuring my peers received their milestone moments first-class.

So when it came to driving – my motoring maturation – why would things have been any different?

Those of you who’ve been reading this column for a few years might remember an instalment titled ‘You’ve Passed!’.

That was about my second rattle at the driving test.

I also wrote one a month before about my first attempt.

If you’re getting confused between them, maybe I can jog your memory.

On the first go, I mounted one curb with two wheels and was, quite rightly, failed.

On the second, I mounted zero curbs with zero wheels and was rewarded with a driving licence.

(If you take issue with the numerical double negative above, get a life. I took enough stick over my delayed puberty, to last a lifetime.

I’ll not sit here and have some jumped-up grammar snob pretending they’ve never seen a rhetorical flourish before!)

Anyway, since passing the test, I’ve never actually owned my own vehicle.

My aul boy, in an I-am-the-provider, paternal sort way, would never see me stuck, so agreed early on to share his van with me.

For quite some time, though, my aul boy, in a where-the-buck-is-me-van, I-need-me-buckin-van sort of way, has been, I suspect, ruing the day he ever ratified the arrangement.

To put it bluntly, the van has been placing a considerable strain on the father-son relationship and something has to be done.

And so, another section of my growth spurt in my lagging development looms.

It’s time for me to buy my first car.

And to add drama to the whole thing, I’ve a deadline.

A car must be acquired by next week or I’ll be walking to work from now on.

And I currently work in Derry, so…

To find out how the car hunt goes and the effect it has on the family dynamic, tune in next week when all will be revealed.

Until then, wish me luck.