A PAIR of pink Chippendale Y-fronts arrive with the mail, reminding me of the fact that, somewhere between turning 17 and becoming too old to get away with glitter eye shadow, I forgot to learn to drive.

Well, not forgot exactly, because my lack of driving licence has always been there, a grey, guilty shadow hovering in the back of my mind.

It’s more that I simply had a non-driving spell that has lasted a lot longer than anticipated. Thirteen years longer.

In the time I’ve taken not to learn to drive (because learning, failing your test twice – first because you were too polite to tell your instructor that you really weren’t ready and second because the assessor kept calling you Sarah and you kept wondering who she was talking to – doesn’t really count), registration plates have become unrecognisable, minis have grown fatter and service stations have opened M&S Simply Food stores.

Yet Jeremy Clarkson continues to present Top Gear dressed in full denim.

Anyway, now that I have run out of excuses, it’s finally time to dig out that old provisional licence (made of paper and full of holes from where I stuck it on the pinboard in my teenage bedroom) and buy some L-plates.

So, the next time I’m in B&Q, buying self-tapping screws, furniture polish and a hanging basket and wondering what happened to the teenager who claimed she would never become interested in DIY, antiques or gardening, I sneak a pair of L-plates into the trolley.

Because, in the embarrassment stakes, admitting that you can’t drive when you’re in your early 30s is on a par with going out with your skirt tucked into your knickers (so I imagine), I have three choices . . .

1. Pretend I was a gymslip mum and they are actually for my teenage son;

2. Tie my shoelace just as she’s scanning them through;

3. Act like they’re for a hen party.