It was my New Year's resolution, and I've achieved it already, so as you can imagine I'm feeling fairly smug. When I tell you that my New Year's resolution list has read "Learn to Drive" for three consecutive years, you might not think my achievement quite so impressive; but the fact that it's taken over two years and five attempts to pass my test made the day, when it finally came, all the more thrilling. When I embarked on the project, back in the dark days of January 1998, I had no idea what I was letting myself in for. I envisaged a few lessons, a test (although in my imagination even this part mainly involved good luck cards and attention), swiftly followed by lots of driving around in sunglasses with the radio on.
That was at the beginning. (Actually, it wasn't quite the beginning; there was a brief prologue to my driving career a few years earlier, when as a student I took some lessons with a joyless man called Brian who told me at the end of my first lesson that he'd never in his career encountered anyone with less natural feel for driving, but - perhaps not surprisingly - my enthusiasm for the project quickly waned.) By January 1998 I was developing a three-cabs-a-day habit that, although handy for learning impressive short cuts, was clearly a road to financial ruin. Besides, at 24 years old, not being able to drive was becoming embarrassing. I bought a new set of L-plates and a course of 10 lessons with BSM, and hit the roads.
Like so many battles, my driving campaign didn't go to plan. Although my new instructor, Steve, was faultlessly diplomatic, by the time I'd written the cheque for the third course of lessons, I was beginning to suspect Brian's comment hadn't been sexist, or even mean, but simply honest. By the summer, the initial thrill of being in the driving seat had subsided, and I was dug into a demoralising struggle. Never before had a basic skill eluded me so completely: I was just terrible at driving. I'm terrible at singing, too, but I can live with that because singing well is a rare talent. Being terrible at driving, however, was utterly galling, because it seemed to be a piece of cake for almost everyone except me. Being sworn at by spotty 17-year-old drivers when I stalled at junctions was beginning to get me down.
But by autumn, I was making progress. Abandoning the admittedly unconventional standing-on-the-driving-seat technique made things more straightforward, and I had figured out which pedal was which. OK, I was still shaky on reversing around corners, but the car no longer hopped and lurched about like a rabbit with hiccups. In the absence of spatial skills or common sense, I had mastered the driving-by-numbers methods for reverse parking, with the help of bits of masking-tape on the windows to show me where to start and stop steering. By winter, I had been learning for a year; at Steve's prompting, I booked a test.
By the time Big Day Number One dawned, I was feeling fairly hopeful. Almost all my friends had passed first time, after all, and some of them still can't park eight years later. How hard could it be? I carefully chose my most responsible, I-never-coast-round-corners outfit, and even remembered not to wear the kitten-heeled mules that Steve had sweetly suggested weren't helping matters. Even my examiner's serial-killer eyes didn't faze me. I started the car and followed his instructions, ostentatiously mirror-signal-manoeuvring my heart out. When he asked me to pull over just past a corner, I knew what was coming. Steeling myself, I reversed around the corner with mathematical precision, but my jubilation quickly subsided when I realised that in my determination to maintain the correct distance from the kerb, I hadn't looked over my shoulder once - an automatic fail.
All pretensions at taking it on the chin evaporated back at work, when I burst into tears at the first inquiry as to how I'd got on. I began to see that telling absolutely everyone I knew that I was taking my test had been a mistake. The second time around, I told just a few people. Not that it calmed my nerves much: in fact, when Big Day Number Two dawned, I was far more nervous than at the first attempt. I was shaking so much that I could hardly get the key in the ignition. Not surprisingly, since I probably appeared to be a complete basket case, I failed. The reactions of those I had told were different this time around. The first time you fail, it's normal; the second, you get sympathy. By the third attempt (when I failed because of something to do with a roundabout) the tests were a closely guarded secret, but those who did know couldn't help trying to get me to see the funny side of it. After the fourth fail (hit the kerb during parking - schoolgirl error) no one knew what to say.
When I finally passed, it was the operative at my sister's paging company I told first. (He congratulated me warmly, which I thought was very sporting.) By this time, having had well over 100 lessons, even I could drive fairly competently; without the shakes, it went fine. When I heard the words "I'm pleased to tell you..." I almost fainted. Steve, who had, I suspect, begun to wonder if he was ever going to see the back of me, was almost as pleased as I was.
Saying goodbye to Steve was rather sad. If you're 17 years old, have eight lessons and pass first time, you probably don't spare a second thought for the person who sat in the passenger seat, but I'd been through a lot with Steve - there was the driving, of course, but more importantly, the one whole and two half football seasons. As an Arsenal supporter being taught by a lifelong Manchester United fan, we'd been through a double for my team and a triple for his, with an hour each week to discuss them.
Apart from being a brilliant excuse to buy champagne (easier now BSM isn't syphoning off half my salary), passing my test hasn't changed my life much. I don't think I'll get a car; I walk to work, and when I'm not at work I'm generally drunk (that's a joke, Mum). Besides, it wouldn't seem a particularly positive contribution to London's traffic problems when there are all those jolly buses and comfy black cabs out there. But that's not the point. I passed, and that's all that matters.
