Whispered

Ten hours, and only because for nine of them everybody was asleep.

I`m not telling anyone, Grandad emailed. Especially not your grandma. Although, for the record, learning to ride a motorbike makes you a better driver. And he used to be Chief Constable of Hertfordshire: he should know.

Mum went predictably bonkers. Never mind your father. He`s a pussycat compared to what I`m about to do to you. Followed by three pages of a lot of allusions to God and praying, even though I`m not absolutely convinced mum is religious. She only appears to be religious when I`m trying to drive motorbikes. Oh, and I`m ringing your dad right now, she added. Right this second. Hold on to your seat.

Dad, however, is worryingly silent. Zero. Nada. Which leaves me to wonder: is, perhaps, there a tiny part of my father that`s proud of me for wanting a motorbike? We`re peas in a pod, after all, so if I want to drive one, isn`t there a small chance that my dad has always secretly wanted to drive one too? Maybe - under all the fatherly terror - there is a little bit of him thinking that`s my girl. Maybe there`s a little bit of him thinking: go Hol.

Or maybe he`s just busy warming up his vocal chords so he doesn`t strain anything on our next phone call.

Perhaps motorbikes are dangerous after all.