Emissions/Kilian Doyle: There were three of us. Waiting. Fear wafting off us in great pungent plumes of putrescence. Almost Beckettian. Only bleaker.
Worst was the security guard. Twenty-two-years old. Paying over €5,000 a year in insurance. He really, really, really needed to pass this driving test.
Middle-aged biker and I tried to placate him. "Have you learned the answers to the questions?" we asked. "Questions? What questions?" he blubbed, a rabbit in a cheap grey suit caught in the headlights of impending financial ruin.
"You know, the rules of the road, stuff like what does an amber light mean," I said, nonchalantly. "It's easy." How disingenuous of me. I wasn't going to admit that I'd had sleepless nights fretting about forgetting the rules that govern yellow boxes.
"Oh. And what does it mean?" Biker and I glanced at each other. Oh dear.
Door opened. Biker dude was summoned. Leaving me with our friend, who was in a state of chassis. He leered over, beseeching me, probing me for an ounce of sympathy, of succour in his time of need. But what could I do? It was too late now. Every man for himself.
I was called. Stern looking chap, no nonsense, down to business. Questions went fine. I remembered what a box junction was for.
Out to the car. Not a word. Suited me. Small talk stinks. He checked my lights. They were tip-top. Wasn't going to make that mistake again.
I moved to lift the bonnet and show him where I once nearly put oil in the radiator by accident. But it was lashing rain. Buckets of the stuff. He looked at me, looked skywards, looked back at me. I nodded. Complicit in our connivance, we just hopped in.
I knew then I was going to pass. He was on my side. Maybe he liked the Bavarian Princess. She's well preserved for her age, a German Catherine Deneuve. Only green. And on wheels. Whatever.
The next half an hour is a bit of a blur. Nothing of consequence springs to mind. Mr RAC taught me well. Didn't crash, didn't break down in tears, didn't proffer any bribes or threats, didn't succumb to the urge to stick on some early Seventies roots reggae to lighten the mood.
Instead, I pretended I was alone, ignoring the tester other than to obey his occasional curt instructions. It was a conscious decision.
My previous test, I kept one eye on my tormentor's notepad and one on the road. The more boxes she ticked, the more flustered I got. The fact she was doing it with such gusto, ticking with great theatrical flourishes as if practising some hybrid between calligraphy and conducting, didn't help. I never stood a chance. I went to pieces.
This chap was far less flamboyant. Only once did I see the pen move. And that was when he stuck it in his pocket at the end.
Back to the office. Plonked me down at the desk, told me I'd passed. Showed me the sheet. Three boxes ticked. "Nothing much to worry about there," he said. I could have sworn I saw him smile. I wanted to kiss him.
That very second, security guard came in, looking 15 years older and four stone lighter. "I'm sorry. . ." said his tester, who looked a bit shaken himself, it must be said. Not wishing to see a grown man beg, I upped and zipped out the door like an eight-year-old schoolboy who'd just got his summer holidays.
Ran over to the Bavarian Princess. Her L-plates came off quicker than a pair of knickers in a two-dollar whorehouse. An ironic cheer rose from a passing bus full of passengers that had witnessed my triumphant act. I sat into the car. Drained. Relieved. Grateful. Elated. Giddy as a crack-smoking chipmunk full of laughing gas.
I took stock. I am now a grown-up. Wife, child, mortgage, stomach ulcer, burgeoning resentments, persecution complex. And now this.
That's all the boxes ticked. Metaphorically. You know what I mean.