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Peter Richardson - 27/06/09
Many people remember with fondness the street in which they grew up.
But in my case it was the A6 in the days before the motorway network took most of its traffic, which made games of cricket and hopscotch a little hairy at times.
So, instead of fond memories, all I have is a strange addiction to diesel.
That being the case I give you, as an alternative, Bridgeman Terrace.
This tree-lined thoroughfare was, and no doubt still is, lined with grand old offices which overlook a park, one of which was my place of employment for half a dozen of my formative professional years.
One reason I remember it so fondly was that the boss of our freelance agency would occasionally slip me an unofficial cash bonus – usually at the end of a 60-hour working week – while expressing the hope that the taxman wouldn't find out.
I suspect the fact that he always spoke in a whisper on these occasions had something to do with the Inland Revenue being next door but one.
However, the main reason I remember Bridgeman Terrace with such fondness, is because of my driving instructor, specifically on the day he was standing on the pavement waiting for me to return to the test centre.
The look of incredulity which crossed his face as I waved the pink slip confirming I'd passed first time, stays with me to this day.
Unknown to him, I'd had a slight mishap in the fortnight before I'd decided to engage his services.
While turning left down by the side of Chorley Hospital I had unfortunately located the wrong pedal . . . a bit of an error which further caused me to locate two bollards, a lamp post and, most handily, the hospital wall which meant we hadn't far to walk to casualty.
It's a pity they don't still make Singer Vogues, as the Army wouldn't need to bother with Challenger Tanks.
Some time later, the woman who was giving me my first unofficial driving lesson, agreed with me that it would be better if she stuck to being a secretary. For my part I conceded that, not knowing the difference between an accelerator and a brake, I might benefit from professional tuition.
Believe it or not, we still got married.
I only took eight lessons. I do believe that's all the poor man could stand.
Wrecking most of the street furniture in my home town ought to have concentrated the mind. Unfortunately, in the panic which beset me with every looming lamp post, I must have speeded up involuntarily, just to get past one before I hit it.
I hear him now, this calm professional who was on his way to a 30-year career as a driving instructor, hissing through his teeth: "Just press the damn brake for once."
Somehow, he got me through.
As the years passed we would occasionally see each other in the pub, where he would remove his pipe just long enough to inquire: "You're never still on the road, are you?"
His name was John Hughes, a lovely, gentle chap who died this week, aged 66. The heartfelt tributes in the paper from his friends would have been more than he ever expected.
Sixty six? You may think, as I do, it's not that old to be pegging out these days, especially when viewed from my seat on the outer fringes of free prescription territory.
But let's look at it another way...
Given that every Wednesday for eight weeks during the summer of 1970, I did my best to kill him, he actually enjoyed a 39-year bonus.
Well deserved too. I managed a three-point turn last week.
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Friday 25 May 2012
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