Pesky knack of driving old Dad round the bend
IS it just me or are Prime Ministers getting younger? I was preparing for kindergarten when David Cameron was born. And just look at some of the bright-eyed poppets in the 2010 Commons intake – like Labour’s Luciana Berger, 28 – ready to make their mark.
Rather than the “slow” speed, I suspect it’s more my steady pace she despises. I do go through life at a consistent rhythm, I know that – dull, perhaps, but it suits my equilibrium. If it’s emotional peaks and troughs she’s after, she had better ensnare a rock-musician boyfriend with tattoos and a Jack Daniels habit, and relish a bumpy life marked by shouting and plates thrown against walls. On the other hand, she hates me doing anything out of character, like occasional disco-dancing in a supermarket aisle. Can’t have it both ways.
James isn’t too concerned about speed, but he does fret about the vehicle. I run from anything remotely posey, vulgar, noisy and wasteful – which explains why I didn’t get the girls in sixth-form. Personalised number-plates? If you’ve got money to burn, give it to charity. We were behind a Skoda Fabia the other day. I said they looked nice and James vowed never to travel with me if I ever got one. Fine . . . but it’s a long walk back from football practice, my little Jeremy Clarkson wannabe.
He was as apoplectic as a 10-year-old can be this week when I read that Lada might make a UK comeback, with a �5,000 recession-busting model. I’m signing up for one now: that’s a cool anti-consumerism statement. I’m also going to contact a man near us who drives a car powered by a lawnmower engine and pick his brain; one of those would be great for cutting ridiculous commuting costs down to size. James and his sister had better invest in some new walking books or dust off their bikes: it’s a long way home under your own steam.