I LOST the final remnant of my teenage years this week. What was once my most coveted possession, my ticket to freedom, is gone, demanded back by those reprobates at the DVLA in Swansea. My driving licence is no more.

I’ve not been banned from driving, I should stress. No, those kind people at the DVLA simply said I had to send back my licence, ten years to the week after it was first issued.

Apparently, it’s no longer acceptable for it to have a photograph of me as a 17-year-old on there. In one fell swoop, they’ve aged me by ten years and – on top of that – they’ve had the gall to charge me £17.50 for the privilege. Typical Welsh manners that – insult you and charge you at the same time.

Their missive came in that classic faux-friendly style of Government bodies everywhere. You always know you’re dealing with bureaucrats when you get a letter in a brown envelope stating the bleeding obvious.

“It’s surprising just how much your appearance can change over ten years,” read the flyer. “If the photo on your licence is more than ten years old it could be difficult to recognise you.”

I can’t really argue with that. When I showed my photocard to a few mates at work, none could believe it was me staring back, understandably, I guess.

When I got my licence, I was a fresh-faced, timid 17-year-old, still at school. Since then I’ve moved from Edinburgh to York, back to Edinburgh, on to Cardiff, and back to York again. Five years in journalism and a painful decade of watching Scottish football probably have taken their toll.

Still, being forced to renew my licence got me thinking back on the ten years since I started learning to drive. My experience, as for many others, was far from fun. I pity my poor parents who endured countless evenings trying not to panic as I stalled at busy junctions or reversed on to pavements. Milk has turned quicker than I did back then.

My most embarrassing moment, through no fault of my own, came while practising emergency stops on a long, straight quiet road.

My instructor had given notice – somewhere along this stretch, he would raise his hand and say ‘stop’. He clearly felt the high wall half-way along would be the ideal place to go for it, and when he cried ‘stop’ I slammed on the brakes.

Unbeknown to both of us, behind said wall was a huge army of what are now commonly known as chavs, loitering, drinking, and shouting, and whose otherwise harmonious evening had now been crudely interrupted by a screeching numpty in a Fiat Punto with a giant L-plate on it.

I was, to them, manna from heaven. Fish in their barrel. A sitting duck. And not only that – I was a sitting duck who promptly stalled. All the most embarrassing moments I have endured pale into insignificance compared to being surrounded and jeered by that baying crowd as I tried to re-start the car and pull away.

My first test ended in disaster, with 17 minor faults, three majors and a dangerous one. I knew it had gone wrong when, in what I was sure was a 40 mph zone, I shot past a sign saying “Twenty’s Plenty”.

When I did pass next time round though, life could not have been sweeter. I used to detour round the entire neighbourhood picking up friends for school, even though I lived just 400 yards away, or bomb up and down the motorway heading for obscure football grounds up north.

And I distinctly recall proudly showing off the new licence to mates, looking at the expiry date, and remarking that May 2009 was an eternity away. Maybe I should send that naivety off to Swansea with my licence.