The night before I entered kindergarten, my mother coached me through a short speech I was expected to deliver the next day. I was terrified by the prospect of kindergarten, and even more terrified by the reality, but I did it: when the time came, I stood up in front of the class and said, “My real first name is Robert, but everyone calls me Timmy.” The teacher nodded gravely and adjusted her register. I sat back down, feeling faint, and vowed never to speak in public again: it would be easier to get used to being called Robert.
I am thinking about that defining moment as I sit in the waiting area of a single-storey building on an industrial estate in Bournemouth. The other chairs are occupied by guilty-looking men with their coats on. We are all looking at our phones. Every once in a while, a small child is led through to the loos by a woman wearing a hi-vis vest. No one speaks.
It turns out that almost the last thing I did before we got rid of our old car was to get caught speeding in it. I was a little indignant, because I have a reputation for being an annoyingly slow driver, but I do recall a camera flashing somewhere along a dark road between Bridport and Lyme Regis.
I was offered the opportunity to attend an awareness course in lieu of a fixed penalty, but Dorset doesn’t participate in the national scheme. If I accepted, I’d have to go to Bournemouth.
The day before, I argue with my wife about who is going to have the car.
“I’ve made plans,” she says.
“You knew I was going to Dorset,” I say.
“Why should I accommodate you?” she says. “You broke the law.”
“I was doing 36!” I say.
At 1pm, I queue up with the other scofflaws for registration. I hand my driving licence to the man behind the desk, and he hands it to the woman who is doing the name tags.
“It’s Robert, is it?” she asks.
“It’s Tim, actually,” I say. “If that’s OK?”
“Of course it is, Tim!” she says.
The first rule of speed awareness course is that you don’t talk about speed awareness course, or at least you don’t record it on your phone, thereby breaching the Data Protection Act. The second rule of speed awareness course is that all you have to do to pass speed awareness course is not get kicked out.
We are split into four groups, and on the count of three are told to indicate the person we want as our group leader. It seems a little impertinent to point at a complete stranger, but this is the least of my worries, because when I look up, everyone is pointing at me. I don’t know why they’re assuming that I – who allowed a dozen gym teachers and guidance counsellors to call me Robert over the years – am fit to lead them toward a greater understanding of stopping distances. Then I realise it’s because I am, by some margin, the oldest.
The speed awareness course is a little boring, as I imagine it’s meant to be, and requires a certain amount of submission: it’s important to be earnest. That is why, halfway through, I feel obliged to disguise the fact that I’m having a really good time. I know most of the answers, I’m happy representing my team at the white board, and I find that I have much to say about the many factors that can affect one’s decision-making behind the wheel.
“I think we’re in danger of repeating ourselves,” I tell the group. “All of this stuff comes under stress.”
Near the end of the course, there is a short section that seems designed specifically for me, about how much more likely you are to kill a pedestrian while doing 36 in a 30mph zone. I feel suitably chastened, but I’m still reeling from the novelty of feeling confident in a classroom setting. I now feel ready to teach speed awareness. Perhaps this is the under-publicised upside of getting old: certain anxieties simply evaporate, along with your hearing.
Afterwards, we’re each given a free pen. “Or, if you prefer,” the instructor says, “a pen you paid £110 for.”
It’s time to get out of Dorset, slowly.
“How was it?” my wife says when I finally arrive home.
“I was amazing,” I say. “They made me team leader.” She sighs, puts the TV on pause and prepares to hear all about it.
