Wheel of fortune
Would you pass the new driving test?
The thing you must understand, reader, is that I didn’t see the sign. I know I should have, but I didn’t, and now I am resigned to living in fear of a knock on the door from the DVLA. Because when I agreed to try out the new driving test, which launched this week, I hadn’t banked on failing.
As far as I was concerned, I was a good driver. I learned on the mad, bad streets of west London and quickly adopted the native approach on the road – essentially, be aggressive, and act as if you’re at the wheel of a blacked-out Range Rover, rather than a second-hand Vauxhall Corsa.
My little red car and I have done all right over the four years since I passed my test (second time, I should add, as do all the best drivers). Granted, I haven’t successfully reversed round a corner in that time, nor could I confidently identify anything under my bonnet, but otherwise, I quite fancy my chances.
The first thing that hits me when I burst into the waiting room at the Barnet test centre is the stench of fear. Six terrified faces are staring back at me, in a room that could have been specifically designed to make you uncomfortable. Hotter than the sun, the lights are so bright you could be held for questioning.
As the high-vis brigade come through the door, clipboards at the ready, sadistic glint in their eyes, I begin to feel a bit nervy. But Cheryl, my examiner, seems a cheery sort and explains the key differences with the new test. As of this week, manoeuvres like the turn in the road and reverse round a corner have been abandoned (thank God) in favour of more common scenarios. Now examiners will ask you to pull up on the righthand side of the road or enter a parking bay. You will also have to do 20 minutes of independent driving following a satnav, and answer vehicle safety questions while driving.
“You would have done ‘show me tell me’ questions on your test four years ago,” Cheryl says. “You were probably asked to open the bonnet and check the oil or something?”
Bearing in mind that, when I had to jump start my car the other day in the pouring rain, it took me a full 20 minutes to work out how to pop the bonnet before chickening out and calling the RAC, I fear I’m likely to lose a point or two here. Out we go into the drizzle to the car, which, as we approach, I realise I’ve left appallingly; its back wheel up on the pavement, its nose pointing out into the road.
“Oh dear, sorry about the parking,” I laugh nervously. It’s important to mention at this juncture that my car is an absolute disgrace. The battery goes flat if I don’t drive it for a week, it has no wiper fluid to speak of – hence an immensely grimy windscreen – and the clutch makes an unnerving squeaking sound when you release it.
Once Cheryl has brushed the crisp crumbs off the passenger seat and gingerly sat down, she asks the first of my ‘show me tell me’ questions: “So, Eleanor, could you tell me where you would find the information for the tyre pressure for this car?” Oh, Christ.
“Err… is it maybe on the dashboard?” I ask, hopefully.
“Anywhere else you might find it?” she replies. That’s a no, then.
“Say, if you went into a garage and you had a flat, how would you find out how much pressure to put in?” “Ring my dad?” (Pathetic but true.) Feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself, I switch the engine on and make a show of checking all my mirrors before driving away. I can sense Cheryl’s lips pursing.
We drive for 20 minutes, Cheryl asking me to pull up now and again and drive on, or do things like clean my windscreen – I’m forced to own up to the lack of wiper fluid, cue further pursing of lips – and turn on my dipped lights.
After what feels like an hour, we come to the end of the test and as I switch off the engine I feel cautiously confident. You are allowed up to 15 minors and I can’t have accrued even a handful. I think I’ve strained a muscle in my neck from checking my mirrors so vigorously, and I barely went above 30mph throughout the entire test.
Surely I’ve got this – but Cheryl is making marks on her slip of green paper, and taking her time.
“Right, Eleanor, that’s the end of your test. I’m sorry to tell you haven’t passed.”
“What?!” Oh God, I’m never going to live this down.
“Would you like to know why?”
“For the love of God, Cheryl, yes.” “Appropriate speed.”
“But I wasn’t speeding!”
“No, you were going too slowly.” It seems one of the roads we drove down turned into a country lane at some (I still say invisible) point and I missed the national speed limit sign and, as such, drove at a cautious 28mph on a 60mph road.
My only minor, I hasten to add, was not being able to answer the question about the tyre pressure. Other than that Cheryl assures me my driving is “really quite good”.
“I didn’t feel at all nervous in the car with you,” she assures me cheerfully as I sit there, crestfallen.
So, I ask, are the DVLA going to come after me now, given I’m going to have to admit to failing my test in a national newspaper?
“Oh no,” she says with a glint in her eye. “We wouldn’t do that.” And with that she’s off to find her next victim, while I’m half inclined to speed the whole way home.