The case for… Not driving

At 40 years old, I’m still unable to drive. I wish I could say it was for noble environmental reasons, or understandable medical ones, but the truth is, after several botched attempts, I’ve never followed through with lessons. It’s embarrassing to have reached the age where visits to the doctor are not only mandatory but feature rubber gloves, without learning to do something many people master at 17. But, in quieter moments, I’ll admit to a shameful, illicit joy in this situation.

I’m in esteemed company. Folks as learned as Noel Gallagher, Richard Osman, Sandi Toksvig and Derren Brown share my vehicular ignorance, as do Davids Attenborough, Sedaris and Mitchell. Each of my several, months-long pursuits of a licence were awful affairs, leaving me shell-shocked, trembling and horrified. Thankfully, living in London has meant that not being able to drive is only really a problem that comes up every few months. The thought of having to drive everywhere on a daily basis gives me hives, not least in the sort of urban sprawl common to major American cities, which TV tells me necessitate car trips to grab coffees or a paper, recreating the transport options of rural Donegal.

I grew up in the Irish countryside myself, where bus services remain limited and trains non-existent. When back, I’m not above scrounging a lift, but usually use this self-imposed impediment as an excuse to exist where I am. To potter and saunter, or perhaps cycle along the expanse of greenery I once gave no thought to. I may still one day have to learn, particularly if my wife is reading this, but for now I’m content to take in nature at 4mph, smug in the knowledge that I’m doing so as God, and David Attenborough, intended.