Going up through the gears to owning a brand-new car

Coming up to Galway’s Russian Roulette of the road – otherwise known as the Browne Roundabout on the Seamus Quirke Road – last week, I was waiting for the smallest break in traffic streaming over the Quincentenary Bridge, as I edged out onto this circular ring of fire.

Just as I got there, out shot a BMW from the grounds of UHG – more of a rat run these days than a hospital exit – entering the fray as though this were a quiet country road of a late Sunday morning.

It was by no means a new car, but it is a fast car – and it was sporting ‘L’ plates on the back window.

That doesn’t mean, of course, that the driver was a learner – not least because, as the sole occupant of the car, he would be breaking the law and invalidating his insurance if he was. It also doesn’t necessarily mean it was even his car.

But in any event, he looked to be of an age where he probably was on a provisional licence – and he certainly didn’t look old enough to have the sort of experience, or money, behind him that warranted the ownership or control of a big BMW.

Apart from his age, he was also lacking in the height department because – seeing him a minute later at the traffic lights – were it not for the baseball cap he was wearing, he might otherwise have been invisible over the steering wheel.

Contrastingly, I was wedged into my small but perfectly formed Renault, genuinely not one bit envious of a young fella with a Beemer because I’ve never owned one and almost certainly never will.

So not jealousy at all; just wonderment as to why one so young needed something so fast and potentially deadly.

The first car I ever owned was a bright red Toyota Starlet which, before it came my way, had one careful collection of owners – the good Sisters at the Convent on Mercy in Galway city.