Little Red Book

One has to wonder whether all those cerebrally-impeded types who have been banging on about the restoration of blue (actually black) UK passports also have a thing for red driving licenses. 

This one was my mother's, from 1962. She was a catwalk model at the time and possessed a suitably glamorous boyfriend — author, politician, surgeon and society sexologist — who talked her into taking the advanced driving test. 

I do believe she was generally a very competent driver throughout her time behind the wheel. 

There was however one smallish incident of note during my early childhood when she left the hand-brake off during a visit to Lidstone (local butcher, now Olivomare) on Lower Belgrave Street, having possibly double parked outside the Plumber's Arms.

I vividly recall watching our car trundling slowly downhill towards the lights at the Ebury Street intersection, seemingly intent on an unscheduled arrival at Victoria Station. 

These licenses had a duration of just three years and had nine pages for stamps/endorsements. They were just a bit larger than a credit card. 

I can see where I might have acquired my tendency to hoard stuff.