Driving test pass put me on the road to adulthood

We were sat in a car for what seemed like an age, my white knuckles nervously gripping the sticky steering wheel.

People talk about your 18th or 21st birthdays. But for me the real coming of age came on that humid Thursday afternoon of 23 years ago, when I could finally cast of the shackles of my L-plates.

It was a long time coming, or at least it seemed to be at the time, with two previous tests having been cancelled on instructor's advice. My friend Stu, a little younger than me, had passed his test five weeks before, but it seemed like a lifetime. For those five weeks he was a winner, I was a loser.

This before the introduction of theory tests – we didn't even have to worry about parallel parking. And demonstrating how much times have changed, my instructor even said it was advisable to drive a few mph above the speed limit, to keep up with the flow of traffic.

The test didn't get off to the best of starts.

"Which is your car, Mr Andrews?" warbled the instructor, exhibiting the kind of enforced bonhomie which is normally the preserve of television gameshow presenters.

"The red Metr..."

"Ah, the Nova!" he boomed over me.

And he was right. At least as far as that afternoon was concerned. It might have had 'Metro' written in large letters across the back, on the grille, and on the mudflaps, but if the man with the power to grant me a full driving licence declared it to be a Nova, that's exactly what it was.

When he told me I had finally passed the test, it was like an out-of-body experience. Had he really just said that? It was only this state of disbelief that allowed me to contain my excitement. This was the day I had been dreaming of for years.

Looking back, it seems that mine was probably the last generation to experience the joy and freedom of motoring. I might have baulked at paying £260 a year to insure a tiny, low-powered hatchback, but what would a 20 year old pay today? More than six times that figure.

Now the Government is looking at imposing all sorts of onerous restrictions on young drivers. Curfews at night, a ban on passengers under the age of 30. I know there are a few idiots about – personally, I would impose a five-year ban on anybody with an after-market body kit – but hasn't it always been thus? Are today's young drivers really that much worse than they were when I passed my test?

That said, there do seem to be a few around who seem determined to prove that to be the case. It never ceases to amaze why drivers of ancient Citroen Saxos, usually with an exhaust the size of the Iraqi supergun, still find it necessary to burn me up at the traffic lights.

Lads, you might have a pile of plastic spoilers and stick-on tinted windows, but I've got a 6.75 litre engine, you've got a 1.2. Come on, hand on heart, which one do you think will go the fastest?

Nine times out of 10, I ignore them. A withering look through the window is enough to communicate my contempt, and I let them get on with their juvenile boy-racer antics. But there is still the odd occasion when I am goaded to teach them some manners by flooring the accelerator, and showing them what a real car can do. Halting the nonsense by the time I reach the speed limit, of course.

It might be 23 years since I passed my driving test, I might now be in my 40s. But believe me, I'm still a long way from being a grown up