GEOFF, THAT’D

be funny if it wasn’t how a whole sector of the community looked at older drivers. But, you see that lowered VR Commodore V6 over there? The one with the bloke with his seat reclined so far he’s almost lying down to drive? Yeah. Him. The one with the hoodie on. Yeah, well that’s exactly what he thinks about us grey-beards, mate.

Mind you, it’s a bit of a two-way street; every time I see that VR Commo (or anything like it) I tend to give it a wide berth and presume that it’s only seconds from doing something random/stupid. Funny thing is, I’m usually right. Call it the generation gap.

A few years back I was walking my dawg when a VL Commodore pulled out of a driveway, stalled up on the converter and snaked its way towards me with smoke pouring off the Bob Jane All-Rounders. I just shook my head at him as he went past, but the spotty, pudgy oaf (for he appeared so) took umbrage at my silent protest, and reversed back to take it up with me. I explained that as this was a suburban street that is usually full of kids and pushbikes and whatnot, he should probably save his exuberant driving for a nice, quiet road in the middle of nowhere. Again, he seemed miffed, mainly on the basis that he’d lived in this street all his life and that entitled him to drive however he liked. And, iffy logic aside, there’s that bloody word: Entitled.

I countered by explaining that even though he was still a kid, he appeared to be a big one and that, in turn, would entitle me to disregard any regrets I might have otherwise had if I caught him at it again and was forced to place my size-nine fair up his date. Again, he seemed displeased with this news, so I tied the dog to a fence and took two steps towards his car. He selected Drive and was gone. As he was entitled to.