Emissions/Kilian Doyle: "Are you sure you want to exit?" the computer asked me. "Yeah, I pressed exit, didn't I?" came my sarky reply.
"That's true, but I can tell by the way you've answered only 36 of the 40 required questions in a frighteningly quick 538 seconds out of the allotted 45 minutes that you're an impatient, caffeine-dependent insomniac with pitiful concentration skills and an arrogance that would put Bono to shame," flashed the screen. "So, I repeat - are you absolutely, one billion, trillion, gazzillion per cent certain you want to exit?"
"I've had enough of this impertinence," I thought. I pressed yes. Twice. Just to prove a point.
"Your test is over. Please leave quietly and try to accept your humiliation with dignity. See you in two weeks."
Huh? I stared at the screen. Run that by me again Big Fella? Like, what I mean is, when does the test actually start? That was still the practice bit, wasn't it? They didn't really think anyone would answer (a) to question 11, did they? I mean, it was a joke, right?
Then what I'd just done began to dawn on me. A wave of panic swept across me, gently caressing my spine and nudging my frazzled nerves into spasms of fear, then frustration, then helplessness, then shame. You mean . . . you mean . . . that's it? What have I done? Don't tell me . . . I don't effing believe it. I . . . am . . . such . . . a spanner.
I glanced sideways at the other 15 people in the room, seeking reassurance, hoping against hope that at least one of them was as much of an eejit as me. I was sorely disappointed. They were all engrossed in their Driver Theory Tests, exuding confidence, taking their time, carefully considering their answers, patiently dealing with the matter at hand. They'd all be driving by the weekend. The bastards.
I scuttled back into reception. I looked imploringly at the nice feller who had greeted me minutes before, the same chap who, on seeing the press card that I used as ID, asked if I was off to Iraq. "I wish," said I. "Might be safer than driving in Dublin, eh?" How we laughed.
I looked shamefacedly at the kind woman who had checked all my details, taken my photo and gently inquired if I knew how to use a computer. She was just checking, just doing her job, but I had scoffed at her silently. How very prescient of her.
"Err, I think I made a bit of a mistake," I said, wearing my most faux-sheepish look. (They'll sort this out, they just have to press a button and I can start again, right? I thought to myself. I won't have forfeited my €35. They have to let me do it again, so they do.)
I explained through clenched teeth. I might as well have been talking to a pair of park benches. This wasn't going as anticipated. "Could you get your stuff out of the locker and bring me back the key, please, while I print out your results?" he asked firmly.
"Look, you don't understand . . . it was a mistake. I wasn't even trying to get the answers right. I was just messing. C'mon, please?"
"I understand just fine, son. Come on, we don't need any trouble here, do we?" he said, edging across to block my path to the fire-axe that was hanging from the wall. He looked nervously at his colleague, as if seeking reassurance that he was dealing with this potentially explosive situation by the book. She nodded back, encouragingly.
"Look, if you phone head office and explain what happened, they'll let you do the test again and won't charge you. Is that okay?" he asked. I could see he was ready to run.
I knew it was over. My options had narrowed to one. I swallowed my fury, took the piece of paper he was proferring, thanked him, nodded farewell to her and turned sharply on my heel. I got outside and looked at my results, just out of masochistic curiosity. I wish I hadn't bothered.
I scored 34 out of 40. I needed 35 to pass.