"WATCH out for that man in his garden," the driving examiner said.
I was sitting my first - and only - driving test. It was all of 30 years ago.
This particular moment occurred during what ought to have been an absurdly easy three-point turn. Driving conditions were perfect. A quiet, empty side-street on a quiet, empty afternoon. Nice summer weather, clear skies, clear visibility. A patient examiner.
Perfect, apart from the shivering lump of fear behind the wheel.
"Watch out for that man," the examiner said again, in the first sign that his patience was not infinite.
I remember seeing the man in my rear-view mirror as I continued to reverse slowly towards him. He seemed to be watching with a mixture of interest and mild concern.
"Brake!" snapped the examiner.
In my panic I think I may have touched the accelerator instead. Just a light touch, but enough to send the car lurching towards the man.
Quite how the car stopped short of his garden wall, I still have no idea. I suspect the examiner used the dual-control pedals.
I've blocked out the memory of much of what followed, apart from a brief exchange of glances with the examiner. I don't know what he was thinking (though I could guess), but I knew my driving test was over before it had reached the halfway stage.
I'd had more than 30 lessons up until then, but much of what I'd learned had gone in one ear and out of the other. I'd never had any interest in learning how to drive, never felt confident behind the wheel. But then, sitting the test and buying that first car is a rite of passage that nearly all of us choose to undergo. My niece passed her test last year and driving is now second nature to her.
Thirty years ago, I walked away from the examiner and the car and towards a life filled with bus and train timetables, taxis, and walking.
The only reason I bring this up?
There's a programme on TV at the moment called The Undriveables, in which instructors try to get serial learner-drivers through the test. One woman had failed nine times. Another had been described by her examiner as a "threat to society". One bloke struggles to avoid hitting parked cars. Watching the drivers, I winced in sympathy with their every moment of fear or indecision. And, inevitably, I felt envy as some of them began to show signs of improvement.
Too late for me, though. I'm on first-name terms with so many taxi drivers, it would be impolite to forsake them now.
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