I have little idea why life has evolved in this way. I try to think of potential reasons but none support a reasonable psychological proposition.

My parents were loving - although each morning they gave me enough rope to hang myself. My sister tells me that was often the subject around the dinner table whenever I was late home but I never felt unable to walk in and confess a ‘few’ of my days sins which reduced the likelihood of any further awkward questions being asked.

My primary school teacher was a Welsh gentleman who sang a lot. He was a fine chap - apart from his inclination to grizzle that administering the ‘cuts’ to me was hurting him more. Why couldn’t he stand up and take it like a man – I did.

My Sunday school teacher had the habit of praying to God about my transgressions but even the supreme ruler didn’t give me reason to think he was focusing unfairly on me. To the contrary, I sometimes thought God provided some excellent opportunities for me to enter the lunch room totally unseen and enjoy the fresh baking. The only carryover damage is a small twinge of guilt that I may not have said ‘grace’ on those occasions.

None of my secondary school teachers left any easily identifiable emotional scars although I’m sure Miss Millar would have if I hadn’t quickly discovered a way of reducing her to tears thereby being dismissed from her class. A close escape that was.

My first Boss told me as I left his employment that he was glad to see me progressing up the ladder of success – as he had had a gutsful and never wished to see me again. I consider that may have affected his outlook on life but certainly didn’t give me reason to particularly dislike authority.

Mulling over these memories brings me to the conclusion that it wasn’t a Darwinian evolutionary process that nurtured my loathing for authority – it was getting my driving licence. This simple act that signified freedom and manhood in our society was the trigger for everyone in a uniform or position of ‘orthority to spend all their time watching and picking on me.

Consider … we lived on State Highway 2 at one end of a stretch that could barely be called a straight but could be used by determined travelers as a passing area. A week after I became a ‘legal’ driver, the local traffic cop started parking right here. I could see him from our kitchen window! Obviously he was unlikely to catch me breaking his precious laws so long as I remained capable of seeing, but that was surely what is now recognised as mental cruelty or even psychological warfare. That could give rise to anxiety in the mind of a tender lad. This, you realise, was in the days before counseling. 

My first effort on counter-attack was to reverse all the way along the road past him and around the corner. Then turn and reverse back home. After the 3^rd time he couldn’t help leaping out of his black & white PA Vauxhall patrol car and holding up his hand in the well known ‘Halt’ signal. I did. Right beside him in the middle of the road and wound down the window for a chat. When asked why, I explained that I was practicing my reversing skills as recommended on page 34 of the Road Code. I’m pretty sure that was the first time I noticed the nervous tic in this left eye.

My ‘workshop’ was in fact a flat area on the side of the road in front of our house. It was elevated so the in the event of an environmental disaster the spilt oil would run down the bank into the water table. The extension lead out the sitting room window drove the vacuum cleaner and electric drill and I could listen to my sister’s record player while I worked. I soon became sick of Cliff Richards and Fabian.

It was here the Ford Anglia was lowered, the cam changed, the head polished and the twin choke Weber carb added. It was also here a length of reinforcing rod was hammered up the exhaust to reduce the backpressure of the muffler. The resulting noise would have been far nicer than a rock crusher in a quarry and to me was a masterpiece of composition a maestro would have entitled ‘Tin Can Sonata’ and won far reaching acclaim. The neighbourhood was unconcerned and in fact delighted to see young lads developing skills. People were tolerant then.

At each stage of the Anglia’s modification the B & W Vauxhall would drive slowly past. The tic became more noticeable. Our test drives were planned for meal times and we often telephoned the officers house to check if he did indeed have his feet under the table. “Ello” (Silence) “Ello” (Click). Such were the skills and excellent judgement developed by teenage boys working with their cars.

A few years later as a self employed 21 years old in Wellington I had the dizzy delight of owning a Daimler SP250 sports car. A burbly exhausted red V8 chick magnet. It was also a magnet for parking wardens and police – and bus inspectors who took exception to my using their convenient parking spaces. Little things like the “Warrant of Fitness” were not a problem as my mechanic mate gave me my own book to write one whenever expiry drew near. In the years ‘BR’ (before radar) the traffic police were required to follow a suspect speeder for 1/10^th of a mile to confirm their suspicions. This made the whole business of driving much more like sport. It was a pretty poor SP250 driver who was actually issued a ticket. However, the traffic police ramped up my anxiety levels to new heights and definitely added to my ‘orthority’ complex during that period.

One day I was driving the SP home from the car racing at Levin. The roads south of Levin were encouraging and the lads always rose to the occasion. So did the traffic police who usually did a roaring trade among the unsuspecting. As anticipated, a flashing red cherry appeared in the quivering mirror well behind so I increased the effort to ensure he couldn’t get close enough to achieve the 1/10^th mile evidence of excess speed. The world was a fine place and I was happy to take my rewards immediately rather than wait for a future in heaven. All of a sudden there was an almighty bang and the lights went out. I mean, my lights went out – not the car lights. I must have instinctively slammed on the brakes and the car fortunately stopped – on the wrong side of the road given I had been midway through passing a stream of about 8 vehicles.

The bonnet on the SP had flung open, as they were known to do if the body flexed over bumpy roads, and crashed across the top of the windscreen. This caused it to snap in half and the half that was still traveling at high speed hit me over the top of the head.

I woke up to find the traffic cop busy & happy directing traffic around the resulting chaos. I also found a few mates I had left well behind, enjoying the entertainment. The cop had time to smirk and say, “Ello, ello, ello, a little bit of a problem eh?” Then he went back to boosting his sense of self importance waving his arms around like a demented conductor of a monkey percussion band. We took advantage of the diversion to remove the 2 pieces of bonnet and stow them in my mates Vanguard station wagon. Then drove away.

You see, in those more civilised times no crime had been committed. I had not been proven speeding. Accidents were still accidents rather than an opportunity to pay tax. Driving while concussed was an advantage and a policeman knew his priorities were to maintain public order and safety.

If you look carefully you can still see the repair on the inside of my SP250 bonnet, and the top of my head is slightly misshapen - and I still blame it on the cop having the poor judgement to chase me over substandard road surfaces.