DRIVING TEST!!!!

OUT TRAY: One learner permit.

I am now officially able to drive on my own in New York State. What kind of experience was it? Well, it was as tedious and scream-inducing as expected. Also, when this lady needs to go to the bathroom, she needs the bathroom, scary streets of the South Bronx or not.

So I arrived at Atilla the driving instructor's office at the appointed hour. I know! That's his name, Attila. He is the Road Warrior, the Preacher-Teacher of the open highway. Amy Fine Collins, magnificent scribe of Vanity Fair has even written a book about him, he's a 'ledge' as my children would say. If you're not ready for the driving test, he won't even take you to the test site.  Atilla is a classic Alpha Male and I would normally argue with such a person purely for the sake of it. When he said 'The fight was strong in your husband too, until he gave in" I knew that psychologically, he and I were equals.

In case I haven't mentioned it before, I would have to do the driving test in Atilla's car. As befits a Legendary Road Warrior, Atilla drives a low, sporty BMW. 'Oops!' I harrumphed as I dropped down almost below floor level. I'm SUV all the way. I then had to drive a harum-scarum route up the FDR (East Side Highway) over the rickety-rackety bridge (Throgg's Neck, of course a troll lives under it) to the South Bronx. North, South, it's equally ghastly. Actually no, South is worse. We drove round sad, slush-covered neighbourhoods for about an hour and a half, having a lesson. During this time, Atilla kept making me practice parallel parking. He gave me helpful hints but I couldn't concentrate - too bored and cheesed off to listen.

Finally we got to the place of the test, a grim street by some warehouses. We joined a queue of cars.  This is when I told Atilla that after 2 and a half hours in the grindster, I had to go pee pee. 'Can I go in the test centre?' I asked hopefully. Turned out there was no test centre. The examiners were a group of people, dressed like bus drivers or postmen, standing around on the pavement. They hopped in and out of the cars to do each test. 'Atilla', I said after half an hour of queueing, 'I am going to look for a bathroom'.

Ignoring commands to sit still and calm down, I got out of the beemer and trudged up a hill towards some shops. On the way, a man ran out into the street, trying to attack two teenagers who he claimed had stolen his phone from his 'crib'. I'm not making it up, he used that word. Everyone got really angry and some kind of scuffle broke out. I just kept going to a supermarket I'd spied at the top of the road. Very kindly, the till ladies agreed to show me to their bathroom facility. What can I say? This was a supermarket basement in the South Bronx. But they were super nice and the bathroom itself, pink tiled, was an oasis in what was no more than a concreted-out cave. The kind of space normally used for electrocuting Daniel Craig. I was as quick as I could be but then I had to wait while the kind Spanish lady who escorted me, er, availed herself fully of the facilities. It was a bit like being in prison.

Then I ran back down the hill to a worried-looking Atilla, who handed me over to the examiner. She was another very nice lady who took her seat beside me. It was a real effort not to make conversation with her, especially because she had the same name as one of my sons! It's strictly forbidden to start chit-chat though, you just have to drive. We were in that car for 8 minutes, during which time the examiner only had to apply the emergency brake once. Despite my magnificent attempt to parallel park and an attack of school buses, she passed me. Everyone was thrilled, we high-fived and then Atilla drove us back home, over the rickety-rackety bridge......

THE END