How to pass your driving test at the age of 53

I was knocked sideways - literally - by the events on Windhover Roundabout on Friday, April 30, 2010, after the pool team final at Testwood WMC.

Sat in the middle of the road at half past midnight with a pain in my elbow and a lump on my shoulder, I knew that 26 years of riding motorbikes had came to an abrupt end.

Fast forward 16 months. This morning, a very nice man told me: “I’m pleased to say you’ve passed your driving test.” OMG, as the youngsters are prone to say.

It has been a long road.

It started in the operating theatre at Southampton General Hospital, moved on to the hydrotherapy pool - where Dave, an Irishman, had me spinning round in a circle while holding a red table-tennis bat under water - and continued with many hours reading the Daily Mail while the Continuous Passive Movement machine did its thing in the physiotherapy unit.

At my six-mouth check-up at the Royal South Hants, my consultant said I could now learn to drive.

And on Thursday, November 11, I had my first lesson with John Lendrum, of Lendrums Driving School (I’m still convinced it needs an apostrophe), who happens to live a couple of doors up from us in Bursledon.

Saint John

Top Gear fan John, who is also a ski instructor, has the patience of a saint. And he needed it.

Clutch control was a major issue. After 49 hours of John gently prompting “more gas, Tim”, I suddenly realised that I needed more gas. And, do you know what, it seemed to work!

Who passes first time nowadays, anyway?

We regrouped, licked our wounds, and continued with the search for the elusive biting point.

For the record, including the test time, I had 66 hours with John.

I hope his clutch survives to fight another day (it didn’t smell too good at one point) and remind me to send a get-well-soon card to the kerb-side walls of his nearside tyres.

Bye, bye South West Trains

I’ll miss the train trips to Chandler’s Ford Snooker Club. I won’t miss the buses that were soon ditched in favour of the only civilised form of public transport.

I’ll miss the leafy walk to Bursledon Station. But I won’t miss the 20-minute wait at St Denys on the way home and the dash for the 14-minutes-past-the-hour train from Chandler’s Ford.

Only once in all that time was I let down. And that was caused by a fatality on the line.

I love the way the electronic boards tell you if the train will be even just a minute late.

And it’s cheaper. And they run in the evening. And they’re comfortable. And the ride is smooth. And you don’t need two different tickets from two different companies just to travel from one side of Southampton to the other.

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