Driving with P-plates - my accidental social experiment

Driving with Ps will make you a target, as I found out. Monday morning, I drove off at 8.30 in a futile attempt to make it to work early. I didn’t.

My son had the car the night before, and the P-plates were still on – I only realised after a series of road irritation events (not rage). The P-plates made me a magnet for drivers’ impatience. Was it because a middle-aged man was driving with them? Would a younger motorist receive less harsh treatment? I don’t know.

From Preston to Port Melbourne, I always take Bell Street to Brunswick, then turn left on Melville Road and from there onto the freeway.

The commute is my indulgence. For 45 minutes I am alone in the car with my coffee and my music. I pretend to be 18 again. Guns of Brixton by the Clash thumped in when I hit the edge of Brunswick.

We moved sluglike under a blanket of drizzle when a car sped up and overtook me on a 150-metre stretch. I braked hard to avoid ramming into it. We both stopped in a funnel of cars edging to the corner of Sydney Rd and Bell Street.

Boy About Town by The Jam reverberated against the windows of my little black Yaris – Darth Vader’s golf buggy, an old friend baptised it. Unexpectedly, a utility cut in front of me, forcing me to brake and skid on the slimy road.

“Relax, malaka” I mouthed off. The driver, given where I live – Greek, Balkan, Italian or Middle Eastern – would understand. Malaka is part of Melbourne’s argot now. He understood and gave me the finger.

“People are nuts,” I mumbled to myself when I realised the Ps were still on. I switched the indicator on in a river of cars to turn into a side street. Behind, someone flashed his lights and beeped, then yelled at me. I parked and took the Ps off. Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin blared out of my speakers and things were normal again.

My son often complains about drivers “acting like dickheads”. I channel my old man and retreat into Greek father trope. “Mate, focus, leave the bloody music alone, look at what others are doing.”

Now I will be sensitive to his complaints. P-platers, regardless of age, and as annoying as they can be, need our care. When you see a P-plater give them room, be patient. They might be blaring their tunes, but let them build the confidence necessary to navigate the driver’s-seat demeanour of those more seasoned on our roads.