EARLIER THIS week, I chronicled my own multiple failed attempts to pass the driving test. The morning the article appeared, I fielded calls from half a dozen radio shows. I continued to insist that bad luck, rather than incompetence, was the root of all my motoring woes.
Arriving at Raheny Test Centre for my sixth crack of the whip, I was determined to avoid making any careless mistakes. I was 50 minutes early, in fact, which is a really long time to spend reading motoring magazines.
I signed a declaration confirming my identity and the examiner remarked, sympathetically, upon how nervous I seemed. Actually, I just have appalling handwriting. But I didn’t correct him.
The test was a breeze, right up to the point where I was asked about hand signals. That page must have been missing from my instruction manual, but I improvised a rudimentary semaphore and the tester seemed happy.
Towards the end of the test, the car windows began to fog up. I was tempted to wipe the windscreen with my sleeve, but I wasn’t sure if that was legal or not. So I did nothing. By the time we got back to the test centre, the view ahead resembled a dream sequence from bad US soap operas. But I got away with it.
We went inside and, five minutes later, I was the proud possessor of an RSA Certificate of Competency. Yee-haw!
