Dodging MacDonalds trucks, nearly flying into a river, almost inserting myself into a brick wall at sixty. We did all that and survived - barely. Now my offspring has passed her driving test. All over, I thought. No more problems.
That was just the beginning. Before my daughter, a procession of drivers have owned, loved and cared for her twelve year old Polo. For its age it was in remarkable condition. In the six months since my spawn has owned it, it's changed shape. I can't go out of the house now without seeing another dent, scrape and what looks suspiciously like dead wildlife clinging onto, or ingrained into the tailgate. I didn't think hatchbacks were supposed to have ledges below the rear window.
I've only been driving for forty years so what can I tell a veteran of six months.
'Dad, don't be such an old grunt-futtocks. It was only a truck, and I missed it.'
Yes, she missed it but not before I'm convinced I saw the driver crossing himself, while preparing to bail out - at thirty miles an hour.
'And why can't I go through the speed restriction at sixty miles per hour?'
'And why is that bus driving on the wrong side of the road? Oh, sorry.'
Sometimes I miss the Royal Marines. At least there it was only people who didn't know me who were trying to kill me.