I've been a driving bloke for 40 years now, but it wasn't always the case. I first felt the call on my Schwinn tricycle at kindergarten. When I got sent home for piloting Virginia Folvig onto a wooden peg (a' la 'Midnight Express'), my parents bought me a pedal car. I was horrified at what I'd done and resolved to take public transport thereafter.

This was fine until high school. For two years straight, bullies held me on the bus beyond my stop. Then along came Stan. No other driver had ever heeded my cries, let alone interceded. For weeks he was my guardian, until the boys got even.

They hijacked him one dark winter afternoon. Their frozen oranges crazed his windows and startled him into a violent skid, which ended in the foundations of the school’s new swimming pool. The boys successfully denied everything. I have their names, though. My family has promised to alert me if any come up in the course of our business.

We're all over the world now, my family. We love being instruments of Fate. It's so empowering; we never take a sickie. This can be risky where vehicles are publicly owned and malingering is a way of life. Fortunately, economic rationalism is privatising most fleets. It's perfect - increased turnover promotes anonymity, while low morale, reduced maintenance and deregulation make it easy to shift the blame. To be on the safe side, we generally change employers every few hits. People are so superstitious.

The most interesting aspect of my work is the aftermath. Though death by heavy vehicle is clearly a fact of life (Google provides over 13,000 returns for the phrase: 'hit by a bus'), few firms have a progression and succession plan hardy enough to handle the spontaneous loss of key employees.

To be continued...