After a year disqualified from driving on account of my habitual falling unconscious and weeing myself, a year spent only being able to buy the amount of shopping I could carry, only being able to walk the dog from my doorstep, only being able to visit people when I was rich enough to be able to afford a train, a year spent spending three times as much time as I needed to travel on a sweaty, pissy, pukey bus, I was delighted to find a letter from the DVLA. There is nothing quite like feeling as if you are getting the keys to your freedom and opening the letter and holding the driving licence in your hands, only to find that it’s not in your name. Thank you, DVLA. Really. Thank you.