Unlike many of my peers, I wasn’t given a car as a birthday present when I turned 18. Publicly I was saying I didn’t want it but I knew it was a case of fox and grapes with a numberplate, at least judging by my driving sessions whenever a chore required sitting behind the wheel of my mum’s old Clio. Chores that inevitably involved driving for far longer than necessary, along roads that led nowhere, in and around the hills and mountains of my province, listening to my favourite music tapes.
Twelve years have gone by, and I still don’t have a car of my own. Mum’s Clio has gone, demolished and hopefully recycled into something more reliable; a rented Golf, an expanded version that Volkswagen surely must be calling something other than the “Bloated Golf” I came up with, sits in the driveway. It’s Saturday morning and I don’t even have to pretend to have a chore to do.
I slide into the driving seat, turn on and the radio announces a special broadcast to mark the thirtieth year of Licensed to Ill by the Beastie Boys. I smile, think at when Licenced was only 18 and drive off.
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