The first sniff of winter always sees me writing long, constructive lists of all the projects I am going to accomplish during the coming months. Something about shops full of grey and black clothes and months ending in "er" fills me with an unreasonable optimism that this year will be the one in which I finally become a well-rounded, satisfied individual with a God-given ability to accessorise.
The lists are like mini-memoirs, embodying not only my state of mind but also the fads and crazes of the time. That autumn of being newly single, the list kicked off with the brave proposal "Knit myself a new boyfriend" while a few years back there was a rather anxious vow to "Find out about the Inter Net". Bless. However, every year without fail, one project pops up like an old friend: "Learn to drive".
At this stage, it is added to the list as a matter of course, in the same way I used to include my German penpal on my Christmas card list without stopping to wonder at the wisdom of sending a card to somebody I hadn't seen in 12 years and didn't particularly like, even then. I recently stopped that little bit of internationalism and this year, I'm also thinking of dropping the "learn to drive" lie from my To Do list.
The thing is, I never do learn to drive and haven't sat in front of a steering wheel since I was seven and bored of playing shop with gravel and the dog. It has often been noted that if you stick to a point of view long enough, fashion will catch up with you sooner or later, and sure enough, it has now become rather trendy to profess an inability to drive - most self-respecting artists are resolutely carless and wherever artists go, developers, architects and media types tend to follow (see Temple Bar).
So I've been bragging about my inability to drive rather a lot, although, as a compulsive chameleon, I tend to adapt my reasons. If I'm talking to a member of the Green Party, I'll mouth off about congestion, pollution and conserving energy, whereas if I'm talking to impoverished friends I'll do the chat about the impossibility of maintaining both a car and a rent the size of the national debt.
This isn't as cynical as it sounds - these reasons are actually true as I sincerely like the meditative qualities of walking and wouldn't be able to afford a car and petrol and parking fees anyway. But in truth, ecological reasons are not usually the reason for carlessness in the young - have you ever noticed that the fervent advocates of alternative modes of transport are usually in their 30s, not their teens or 20s?
Just as we as a people have only recently started to prize seafood after centuries of suspicion because fish were so plentiful and free during the Famine, so too are young people loath to embrace bikes or walking if they have a chance to use a car. Carlessness is redolent of poverty and necessity and not of choice and quality of life. It is only on reaching thirtydom that one realises driving is an option, not a luxury.
Given that I have fallen for other forms of consumerism in a big way, it is uncharacteristic that I didn't leap into a car at the age of 17 like most of my friends. Growing up, we lived a fair car-journey from anywhere at all and deep down, there was a realisation that an inability to drive would hasten the day when I could move into the city centre - which to me was the epitome of cool and the acme of accessibility.
Once you live in or near a city centre, there is little reason to own a car, as shops, parks, cinemas and friends' houses are all a short walk or cycle ride away. Justification for not learning to drive was easy to find and excuses simple to trot out - there was neither a car nor time available to practise in. But now that most of my friends are driving, my constant procrastination would indicate that more subtle, complex and stubborn traits are at work.
Laziness is foremost among them: who would choose to go out on a winter's night to drive aimlessly around the suburbs when you could be cosy inside, watching videos and boyfriend-knitting? Whereas friends seemed to find the thought of driving a car a deeply fulfilling one, up there with losing their virginity or buying property, I was always thoroughly bored by talk of gears, throttle and three-point turns. Allied to this is a deep selfishness - as I sit and get merrily drunk of an evening out, I look at the nominated driver sucking rather sourly on a Diet Coke and wonder at the logic of learning to drive. Increasingly, friends have started bouncing about with pieces of paper titled Certificate of Proficiency - am I the only one to think "A-ha, proficient at driving me around, more like it"? It's not as if I request a taxi service anywhere, but if people feel the need to demonstrate their independence by driving, am I not just reassuring them with my dependence on their driving skills?
In truth, fear also plays a role. As somebody who can hardly go into a cookware department for fear of getting creative with the Sabatier knife display, I find the thought of being in charge of a great hulk of metal deeply alarming. This week, economist Peter Bacon advised the National Safety Council that a new driving test to incorporate theory should help to reduce the number of road accidents. Bring it on, Dr Bacon, but for the moment I'll stick to the tried and tested method of not getting in behind the wheel in the first place.
Of course, it's easy for me to talk about not driving; childless city-dweller that I am. But that, it seems to me, is the whole point - I don't need to drive right now. However, if car owners and car manufacturers are to be believed, driving is more than a human right, it's a fundamental part of being. Whether driving through autumn leaves, around hair-pin bends or across a moody desert, we have sanctified the notion of driving for the sake of it until nobody seems to question whether it's necessary. Enough already - this year's To Do list is going to include the entry: "Stop trying to justify inability to drive."