The forecourt (where Mr Gottl had brought us to sing to the shoppers) was filled with arcade games. Four years earlier it had been Space Invaders. Straight after school, bags at the door, line up. Half an hour later (if you were lucky) you got to put your money in the slot and blast aliens. Then Curtis would record your score, and some other kid would beat it, so you’d have to line up and try again. We all lost our techno-virginity in the Gleneagles Shopping Centre forecourt. Until the novelty wore off, and we returned to bikes and graffiti and, eventually, shoplifted pornography.

I passed the record shop (where I bought my John Lennon LPs) and waited outside the butcher as Pop talked to Bruce (the fritz-giver, the mum-chatterer), his team’s colours beside a poster of economical cuts. Artificial grass in the front window, and trays of rib eye resigned to their crock-pot fate. Bruce: who was always happy and smiling, probably because he knew people would always want meat, and Coles could never match his quality. Until they did.

Pop came out, handed me the keys and said, ‘Go on.’

To be honest, I’d let the driving slip. It was a lot of work, and there were songs to transcribe, personalities to describe, neighbours to watch. I couldn’t reverse-parallel, and there was always the bus. But Pop insisted. ‘The sooner you take yer test the sooner we don’t have to drive you around.’

Right. I got in, belted up and started the car. ‘Seatbelt, Pop.’

‘I don’t need to wear it.’

Maybe he was testing me. ‘If we have an accident, you could get hurt.’

‘Go on.’

I waited.

‘It’s my life. If I want my brains all over the road …’

I waited.

‘Christ!’ He put it on then lit a smoke. ‘Do you mind if I have one?’

‘Feel free.’ As I backed out, and someone else did, and abused me.

Pop put down his window. ‘He was first! You fuckin’ wanker!’

I navigated the car park. The 120Y was running rough and I said, ‘Sounds like the plugs.’

No reply.

‘We could buy some, replace them.’

‘Put it into Conte’s. Get it done properly.’

‘Spark plugs?’

‘Get him to do it. I couldn’t be bothered.’

‘But you said he was a crook.’

He took his time with his smoke. ‘He’s okay.’

It seemed final. He’d decided: no more cars. Even spark plugs, which were the easiest thing of all. ‘You know what he’ll charge?’ I said.

‘Watch the kerb.’

But I’d mounted it, and the Datsun’s shockers protested.

‘Less talk, more concentration.’

I turned onto the main road, indicated and entered the flow. ‘Can’t let things beat you,’ I said.

‘If I want a sermon I’ll go to church. Just drive. Look, he’s gonna—’

And he was right. The Mazda cut in front of me, and Pop reached over and sounded the horn. ‘Don’t be scared to tell them.’

‘Let me drive.’