The screeches of the 57 plated gearbox trundles to a distinct halt. A wrinkled left hand turns the dial on the dashboard a nudge clockwise. Hands place their phone in their right-hand pocket. Ear buds momentarily pause and prickle to the analogue. Minds imagine a realistic Mediterranean Indian summer, or in consolation some cheap Cervas, Plzen Lager or Balkan wine. Then suddenly the weary little wreckage reminds its guests of its 18 years when the B word is mentioned. Belarus. White Russia. The land of Mr. Putin’s little brother, dictated by the evil of Mr. Lukashenko.
Akin to passing your driving test on your age of majority (without a passport), a moment of euphoria is quickly replaced with a large deep exhale.
A reimagination of downing white spirit is quickly mopped over by cans of Tennent’s Lager spewed across the living room table. The passengers’ earlobes become full again; the driver’s right hand trickles the dial anticlockwise seeking to quickly reminisce over his Mexico 86 trip, the sound of Bon Jovi’s Living on a Prayer gently nods his mood. The 30-speed limit sign casts an ominous shadow over his stalled speed; another chance missed. The Little Mermaid and Acropolis are just too similar to Greyfriars Bobby and Calton Hill, and don’t offer the appeal anymore.
The weathering hands moves the gearbox and wheel to a neutral state. A recognisable pair of arms console the despairing gentleman as he winces at his 30th different national European trip trickling away.
The youngsters turn up their volumes, unbeknown to them of the personal reality that is blighting their master’s master. A forgiving circular marshmallow rests on his 2007 McFadden coaster, and he plumps down admiring frames of famous escapades featuring many a Cognac, Stein’s, Rose’s, and Raki. He contemplates the thought of a Tennent’s-fuelled evening pinching his final spot on his preserved mantlepiece. In appreciation of his age and loyalty to their nation, the apprentices band together and click open the lager turning up the volume on their grander device.
The postie will eventually place the licence through the letterbox, and all will be well. The grand master will look to have seven weekly ticks on his medication sheet, and he will attempt to caress the thoughts of the marshmallow delivery driver. Perhaps the well-oiled tastes of pastries and gyros will be an edible consolation, as maybe just maybe Mr. Clarke’s men can help our senior citizens relive their younger selves one last time.
