Whispers

I`m about to play a game I like to call Blog Whispers. It`s a simple game, and wonderful for many reasons: not least because it gets me out of telling my father things I don`t want to tell my father.

It works like this:

I blog. My grandad, my Aunty Judith and my mum read the blog post at various points of the week: usually in that order. If my grandad reads it first, the chain is slow because he doesn`t like tattling on me, so he`ll tell my grandma and then she`ll probably tell my dad next time she sees him by slipping it accidentally into the conversation after making him a coffee so that she can slip it accidentally into the conversation. If my Aunty Judith reads it first the chain is very slow, because she lives in France and so she would have to email my dad specifically in order to tell him, and so she may ring my grandparents and ask them to bring it up if they haven`t already. If my mum reads it first, it`s like a wick soaked in petrol: the whole place goes up with a bang immediately, and my dad has been rung before she`s even finished the sentence.

Needless to say, my dad has never, ever read this blog. To the best of my knowledge, he wouldn`t know how to find it if he wanted to. Which is great, because when he finally found out that The Boy existed this summer, it took my entire family to prevent him tracking him down and breaking both of his legs.

Anyway: the race is on. I`m about to see exactly how long it takes for this news to reach my dad.

Next summer, I`m taking a motorbike exam.

Not a scooter exam. A motorbike exam. For big, fat motorbikes. You know how they say that if you start smoking marijuana it always leads to harder drugs? It`s the same for driving fast. You start on a 30kmh scooter and next thing you know you`re driving at 40kmh and the little speed light is flashing so hard it`s about to fall off and you`re glaring at the big motorbikes zooming past you and thinking you total bastards. I feel like a granny on Scooby. I love him, obviously, but I suspect that by next summer I`m going to want to get off and push him everywhere to see if it makes him go faster. And I`m hooked on it: on the freedom, the independence, the peace, the excitement. The feeling that you are totally in charge of your own direction. I am totally hooked. I can`t imagine wanting to drive a car again. (Until I have a child, and then I`ll probably try and strap them to my back and maybe go a little tiny bit slower.)

Which doesn`t mean I`m getting a motorbike next summer. They`re too expensive, they`re too big, they`re too much maintenance: my life is too transient and floaty to allow me to invest in a proper mobile phone at the moment, let alone a vehicle. But it`ll mean I`m better at scootering, I can drive a bigger scooter, and I can drive a motorbike if I want to. And that`s the key point: if I want to. The key to all freedom. Opening as many doors as possible. So that if I get into a situation in Nepal or Vietnam where it might be a good idea to get somewhere else fast, I can hire a motorbike and do it. If I want to.

I think it`ll be about five days. My dad is the most playful father in the world, but something about having his eldest child crushed under the wheels of a lorry is probably going to make him lose his sense of humour, so it`ll be about five days before we have the following conversation:

Dad (lips pulled tight): "What the fuck do you think you`re playing at? What`s all this about a motorbike? Don`t even think about it. Do you know how many people die on motorbikes every year? Do you know how dangerous they are?"
Me: "I didn`t say I was getting a motorbike. I said I was going to take a test and get a license."
Dad: "I don`t want you anywhere near a fucking motorbike, Meatloaf Junior. You get a license and it`s just a slippery slope. You are not getting on a motorbike, do you hear me?"
Me: "I`m 29 in three weeks. I can do what I want."
Dad: "I don`t care if you`re bloody 63 in three weeks, you are not getting on a sodding motorbike. Not now, not next summer, not ever. End of conversation."
Me: "I am."
Dad: "Can I still ground you?"

Five days. Much less if my mum makes it to a computer in between now and then. And - whenever this news reaches my dad - I am going to be in so much trouble. Which is why I`m letting someone else tell him.

Let the game begin.