Firstly - I apologise for any non-feminist or sexist attitudes that may arise from my memories of how I finally learned to drive in order to pass my test.
My first, soon to be ex, husband had called in at our flat to pick up a few of his remaining posessions. As he prepared to leave, he picked up the keys for our battered Hillman Imp. "After all" he said , in a sardonic and sneering voice "you won't be needing the car, will you?" He trousered the keys and b£ggered off.
I had saved up for that car, and my father, very generously, had topped up my savings! I sat and seethed in an impotent fury as I heard the cough, splutter and roar of the Imp driving away. I sniffed into a Kleenex - but then felt full of resolve. I would pass my test and claim back the Imp!
I'd had quite a few lessons at CH with the thigh-groping Mr Brown in his orange Mini, and then taken the test once I'd left school. I'd failed miserably. How was I to know that that cat would dart across the road and that a lamp post would be in the wrong place? None the less, it was with some trepidation that I ventured through the door of the local BSM.
"Neil will be your instructor" said the manager. "Neil???" he shouted.
But a vision was entering the office. With platinum-streaked tousled locks and spray-on tight jeans, he was more like Rod Stewart than Rod Stewart was. "I'm Neilw" he said unnecessarily. I was dumbstruck as we walked out to the BSM car park.
The car was tucked away in a corner. It was a Triumph Dolomite, and I was amazed how easy it was to manoevre it out of its corner. The gears were as smooth as silk. In the Mini, changing gear had been like operating a swab held by long interlocking forceps. Before I knew it, I was on the main road. "Nothink wrong wiv yer free-point-turn then" said Neilw. I was beginning to feel very much more confident. "Well..." I said "I've never been very good at large roundabouts, dual carriageways, overtaking lorries...". My voice wobbled. "All a bit
sticky for me!"
"Sticky!" said Neilw. "Sticky is what I love! Golden Syrup is what I love! Yeah..." He got out a pack of Rothies and fired one up. "Find a nice big fat woman and spread it on...
oh yeah!" Choking with giggles, I realised that I had actually selected the correct lane and was negotiating a dreaded roundabout.
"bl**dy, bl**dy, bl**dy good!" shouted Neilw. His voice dropped again. "Getting a bit low on Golden Syrup, though. Better restock soon..."
Neilw was a joy. Before long, my driving had improved beyond recognition. Even reversing round a corner held no fears for me any more. Gone was the nervousness brought on by tetchy grumpy Mr Brown in the Mini, and after a month or so, Neilw thought I should attempt the driving test. Obligingly, he discovered the identity of the examiner.
"What bits of the Highway Code should I study just before the test?" I wondered. Neilw had other ideas. "Nah. Don't worry 'bout that - just concentrate on yer eye make-up" he advised. "The guy likes uniforms. See what you can come up wiv."
I'd selected a short scarlet velour dress, with small epaulettes which gave just a hint of uniformedness, the highest heels in which I felt I could drive and had brushed my eyelashes to a fluttery Bambi-like lushness. Well - I was desperate! I had to pass - I had to! Although the examiner had that exhausted world-weary demeanour that suggested he had been tormented by the horrors of examining to a hideous degree.
I have no recollection of the test whatsoever. As we drove back to the Test Centre, I could see Neilw peering casually from behind the swing doors. The examiner looked oddly pale as he totted up paperwork points or whatever.
"Miss Marsh" he managed "have you got any knowledge of the meaning of the word "anticipation"?"
I reeled off a dictionary definition. "Oh well, then" he said wearily. "Congratulations. You have passed".
Passers-by may have boggled at the sight of a scarlet-clad Bambi dancing on the pavement with Rod Stewart .
