A dark day's work

This is very, very embarrassing. Very embarrassing indeed. I had hoped to be telling you lovely people today of how I, at the tender age of 34, had finally passed my driving test and had ripped off my L-plates with a flourish before triumphantly phoning my insurance company and smugly informing them I would be expecting a hefty rebate on the huge chunk of money they were charging me as a provisional licence-holder.

But it was not to be. Mr Quinn can sleep soundly in his bed tonight knowing his billions are safe. I won't be troubling his chequebook just yet. And my L-plates are still there. Except now they look about six foot square and the L stands for Loodramawn.

Not that I failed, mind. That, I could accept. Over half of people do first time. It's nothing to be ashamed of. No. What I did was much, much worse.

I had two pre-test lessons. The first chap asked was my car in good working order. "Yes," I replied proudly. "She's a beauty. Never let me down yet." I thought he was paying the Bavarian princess a compliment.

The next day, the second instructor asked me had the first chap asked me that same question. "Yes, yes he did," said I. "And did he check?" asked my teacher. "Err, yes," I fibbed. He hadn't. But I reckoned I wasn't paying this man to scrutinise my car. The NCT people will do that next month. I thought nothing more about it.

I arrive at the test centre. Nervous, but quietly confident. I had spent three days executing three point turns until I could have done it blindfolded on a 15-foot-wide plank of wood over the Grand Canyon while having my bikini line waxed by a drunk chimpanzee. I had interspersed this with training of Olympian intensity in the delicate art of reversing around corners, a skill which, once acquired, is about as useful as being able to juggle pink yaks.

I reasoned that, while I may or may not be a good driver, I can certainly put on a passable impression of one for half an hour.

I do the spoken test bit. Not a bother. Tester practically tells me the answers. I like him.

We go to my car. "I'm just going to test your lights," says he. Grand. I switch the indicators on. "Now the brakes, please," he says. I hit the brakes. I look in the rear view mirror at him. I don't like that look on his face.

"Em, there seems to be a problem. Could you try again, please?" I try again. Still that look on his face - the look a vet gets just before telling you your childhood pet needs to be put down. "I'm sorry, but one of your rear brake-lights is defective. We won't be able to conduct the test. It's the rules."

I felt the bile surge to my mouth like hairdressers rushing to the front at a Westlife concert, panic clutching the back of my head like a prop forward. "B-b-b-but it was OK when I checked yesterday," I lied. I had never checked it. Ever.

The tester shook his head. He'd seen it all before. "Sorry, you won't be tested today." To give him his due, he was almost apologetic. "It's possibly just a bulb, it'd probably only take a second to fix it," he said. Like that makes it any easier.

So there you go. I managed to botch up my driving test without the tester ever getting into my car. Cost myself hundreds of euro in paying for higher insurance premiums, driving lessons and a new test all because I didn't check a bulb that will cost me €1 to replace.

And then I drove home alone without a full driving licence in a car that had been deemed minutes before to be too unsafe to drive. And I did it legally. Isn't Ireland great?

(Some readers may remember that in July I called for the summary execution of the 6,500 people per year who are turned away from tests for similar reasons to me. I remember it too. I was just hoping that nobody would mention it.)