I admit freely to pedalling and parking  my trusty old bike of belligerence down this crowded cul-de-sac of controversy  several times before.

For all that, I couldn’t give a bashed bollard if that betrays the odd streak of reluctance to embrace some generally accepted ways of our wondrous changing world.

As one of Norfolk’s most experienced non-drivers – that’s a proud boast rather than a humble apology – I used to steer clear of smug condemnation of scary behaviour on our increasingly full and dangerous roads.

Even so, all those years of loyal service as passenger, pedestrian and public transport user have provided an ideal box-seat when it comes to weighing up a fair number of the good, the bad and the downright demented.

My decision to stay away from the driving seat altogether was influenced considerably by a flock of test examiners in the 1980s who hinted strongly it might be best for all of us if I left the highways to those who had some idea what they were intended for. 

Sadly, I can only assume that highly commendable brand of judgement did not apply to many who came before my decisive pit-stop or to countless drivers since with scant regard  for basic tenets of road safety.

An epidemic of mobile phone use while driving is far from over. The occasional purge has pricked a few consciences while headline cases about hideous crashes caused by blatant texting and chuntering bring renewed warnings from police and gasps of disbelief from a rather naïve public.

It's still too easy to stand at the side of any busy road in Norfolk and tot up a dozen or more flagrant transgressors in fully cry within a few minutes,  especially when holiday traffic mounts and tempers fray among children in he back. Dad and mum are otherwise engaged.

Don’t tell me or other public-spirited citizens to stop gawping and counting and “get a life”, or supreme irony of so glib a response being used in such a context will come into play to haunt certain people for rest of their driving days,

I lost my mother and a young sister in tragic road accidents in the 1970s, long before the current pandemic of alarming antics on far more congested and dangerous highways.

Other relatives and close friends have shared their anguish and anger since my own heart-breaking episodes.

They could well have taken toll on prolonged but scarcely resolute efforts to absorb and retain enough skills and confidence to hit the road on my own. In any case, my absence has been vindicated all too often. not lest by limited and excruciating experience of motorway madness as a passenger. 

I recall a nightmare trip when we returned younger son to university studies in Southampton.

He travelled by train as a rule but extra gear for final year required a packed car boot, mum’s driving skills and dad’s useless impression of a seasoned spectator.

White knuckles and weak jokes about civilisation teetering on the verge gave me away just through Barton Mills. Lashing rain and next-door sight of the driver of a thundering great lorry busy on his mobile phone did little to endear me to Essex and its Sunday afternoon delight.

As weather cleared and we moved through a succession of beleaguered counties, I started to wonder how many cherished homes, family farms, buttercup meadows, wildlife havens, rural retreats and uplifting views had been wiped away since 1958 when the Preston bypass opened as Britain’s first stretch of motorway and the initial eight miles or so of the M6.

Anecdotal evidence from regular users, including several who have decamped to Norfolk for health and sanity reasons, points firmly at an environmental price of cataclysmic proportions.

Yes, a gradual takeover by electric vehicles ought to make our roads  a bit cleaner and quieter – but worship of King Car threatens to stall fears of bigger queues, longer delays, shorter tempers and horrible accidents.

I suspected specimens and speeds might multiply as soon as vehicles moved too quickly for me to jot down number plates at the edge of country lanes in the early 1950s.

Now I watch cities, towns and villages struggle to cope with an ever-rising rampage of traffic.

Anti-social parking is a polite term for a veritable plague of pavement-crushing  antics on countless Norfolk streets as bigger, brasher models demand to be admired for managing to squeeze into such limited space at the expense of boring pedestrians, disabled dawdlers and seasoned residents.

Glossy advertising, motor show trumpeting and ageing schoolboys showing off their expensive toys on certain television programme has fed an ego-swelling religion failing markedly to give a prayer for life along the quiet, safe and sensible track.