Testing Times 2: Even Testier

On Monday, I took my driving test.  My instructor picked me up an hour beforehand to allow me to limber up, and I was driving fairly happily around Leighton Buzzard, but as the hour wore on, I decided to express my quiet confidence by tensing my shoulders and sighing heavily.

We arrived at the test centre, and my instructor asked me to reverse into one of the parking bays.  I reversed in, pulled forwards, then back, then forwards again, then back again.  Eventually my instructor was satisfied, and we got out.  I don’t believe in omens, but if I did, that was one, and it was not a good one.

We entered the centre, and I waited with a calm serenity that made itself known through hand-wringing, fidgeting and gulping.  Eventually the examiner came out and asked for me.  With all the eagerness of a French aristocrat at a guillotining gala, I stepped forwards.  I was able to confirm my name and address, after some thought, and was then asked to sign in a box to say that the car I was driving was properly insured for a test.  Was it?  I had no idea!  It wasn’t my car after all.  No, it must be.  My instructor takes loads of people for their tests, and he never struck me as a fraudster.

I signed in the box, then stared in horror.  My hands were shaking a little (with excitement you understand) and as a result the squiggle in the box looked only very slightly like the signature on my provisional licence.  I would be refused my test, accused of fraudulently failing to be myself and fined, imprisoned or shot!

The examiner took back the form and I prepared to make a bolt for it, or else sell my life dearly.  Apparently she didn’t notice that the signatures were different, or perhaps her eyes were trembling, and therefore made the signatures look the same.

I was then marched outside and forced to identify my car in a strange mockery of a police line-up.  I dutifully pointed out the offending vehicle.

“Can you read the number plate of the car on the far right?”

I blinked.  We hadn’t practiced this bit!  We hadn’t checked that I could see the regulation 20 metres (20.5 for old-style plates; that 50 centimetres which can be the difference between life and death!).  I looked at the number plate, and found that I could read it perfectly well, so I did.

We then advanced on the car, which started to look a little nervous.  “Can you open the bonnet?”

I could!  We’d practiced this one, and I did so with only a moderate amount of fumbling and muttering.

“Identify the brake fluid reservoir.”

I did so.

“And how would you check the brake fluid level?”

I pointed out the marks on the side.

“Get into the car.”

I paused, aware that more questions would follow.  “Should I close the bonnet?”

She gave me a strange look.  “It might be best, yes.”

I did so, and joined her inside.  “Where would you find the information for the correct tyre pressure?”

Aha!  I knew this one!  I had assiduously studied the questions, and knew both parts of this particular conundrum.

“In the manufacturer’s guide!” I proclaimed triumphantly.  I looked at her expectantly as she made a note.  I waited for the second part of the question.

“Start the engine when you’re ready.”

I blinked.  But… but what about the second bit?  I was eager to tell her about using a reliable pressure gauge (not that I knew how to tell if it’s reliable or not) and that one must do it while the tyres are cold!  I yearned to share with her that one must on no account forget to check the spare wheel or neglect to replace the valve caps.  Didn’t she want to know?  Was she utterly indifferent to this vital knowledge that I alone could impart to her?

Apparently not.  I was ready, and so we started.

We drove.  Well, actually I drove.  She was no help at all.  All she did was sit in the passenger seat like a sack of cold rice pudding and issue commands.  “Turn right”.  “Turn left at the roundabout.”  “Pull up on the left in a safe place.”  These were issued in a dull monotone, and it struck me that this woman did not enjoy her job.  She had gone through the regulation setting-at-ease conversation as though reading off bullet points.  “What would you normally be doing today?”  I had told her, and even made my joke about ball bearings being almost as interesting as they sound.  Nothing.  Not even a small exhalation of laughter.  As soon as she’d made the attempt, she stopped, and might even have made a tick on her form to show her supervisors that it had all proceeded in accordance with the rules.

I tried to lighten the mood.  “So, what would you be doing if you weren’t at work?” I bantered.

“Probably riding a horse.”  It was said with a sort of listless apathy that made it impossible to picture.  Now that I’m writing this, I realise that all sorts of ‘long face’ jokes would have been possible, but I was concentrating on driving, and the opportunity was lost.  Alas, the greatest jokes flit past and are gone, never to be retrieved.  Anyway, that more or less ended the conversation.

“Pull up on the left, behind that grey car.”

Noooo!!!  That’s what they say when they want you to do a parallel park!  My absolutely least favourite manoeuvre!  I slid to a reluctant stop next to the curb and waited, stomach knotting in anticipation and mind burning with resentment towards my sadistic torturer.

“Ok, now pull away again when you’re ready.”  I blinked.  A reprieve!  Hussah!  I did so before she could change her mind, and we were off, away from that hated grey car and the horrid space that lay behind it!

“Pull up on the left.”  I did.

“Now, turn the car around in the road, without touching either kerb, and then drive on.”

Hooray!  The turn-in-the-road was my least-least favourite manoeuvre, and one I could accomplish with comparative ease.  It’s also one that comes with absolutely no requirement to adjust your mirrors. This adjustment isn’t a problem, except that I always forget to adjust them back again, and it comes as something of a shock when you’re tooling along at sixty, glance in your left wing mirror and find that you can see nothing but floor.  The lenient, kindly examiner had even chosen a nice wide road!  The manoeuvre was manoeuvred with what, in all modesty, I can only call unsurpassed skill and finesse, and we were off again the way we’d come.

Things were going well!

We’d got onto a main road and arrived at a roundabout.  There were cars, and I pulled to a halt.  Then I cursed inwardly.  None of the cars were coming in my direction, I could have gone!  I should have gone!  Even now I knew that she was judging me for my dithering hesitancy.  A gap in the traffic, and we were off again!

The car stalled.

This is important, because you see I did not stall it.  It stalled.  It baulked at the moment of proof.  A cowardly and treacherous car, I call it.  Cursing very loudly in silence, I restarted it and forced it onwards.  Only seconds had been lost, but what disastrous seconds!

We got back into town, and were puttering along merrily at 30mph.  “Take the next right.”  I looked.  The next right?  But that was right there!  We were right on top of it!  I braked, and since there was nothing coming I turned swiftly.  I won’t say that the tyres screeched, that would be an exaggeration, but there were definite G-forces at play inside that car.  I remained quiet and hoped she hadn’t noticed.

Indeed, if she had, she accepted it with the same lacklustre disregard with which she approached examining and jokes about ball bearings.  I felt for her, this depressed, suppressed, grey, biscuit-dry soul.  Then something occurred to me.  She hadn’t said please.  She had not once said please!  “Take the next right.  Take the next left.  Tell me about your job.  Follow (against all your natural inclinations) the signs for Dunstable.”  Never a please, never a thank you!

In that great classic of 20^th century English Literature, The Elephant and the Bad Baby, when the eponymous pachydermal protagonist came to the same conclusion about his passenger, he stopped so suddenly that the malevolent mite fell off.  I was tempted to do the same; unplug her seat belt, promptly perform the emergency stop manoeuvre and watch her go sailing majestically through the windscreen.  I thought though that it might prejudice her against me, so I refrained.

We returned to the test centre, and I pulled up.  She bent over her form.  I leaned round as unobtrusively as I could to see which marks she was making where.

“Congratulations.  You’ve passed.”  She might as well have been talking about horse riding for all the human emotion she showed at announcing the culmination of all my driverly education.  “You incurred three driving faults.”

She announced that my licence would be shredded, and a new one sent to me.  I had to sign another bit of paper, and my hands were now shaking in the other direction, so my signature was completely dissimilar to either the one on my licence or the one I’d done earlier.  She didn’t appear to notice the obvious bit of identity theft, handed me a paper certificate, and got out of the car.

My instructor at least showed considerable satisfaction at my triumph, and I adopted a dignified grin for the whole journey home.

Testing my Patience

Yesterday, I sat my driving theory test.  Obviously it was, like any test, somewhat nerve-wracking, however I had prepared thoroughly and knew what to expect.  From the test itself that is.  The process I had to go through prior to being permitted into the test room itself however surprised, annoyed, and to some extent offended me.

I entered the building, past a bored-looking receptionist/security guard type who gave me not a second look (actually, he might not have given me a first look).  Following the signs, I went through a door, down a long, narrow and rather ominous corridor towards a door saying ‘Candidates Only: No Other Admittance’.  Passing through this portal, I found myself in a waiting room/reception area.

Here, a friendly receptionist gave a laminated sheet of Thou Shalt Nots that I had to sit and read through.  The standard exam stuff: no talking; no mobile phones/pagers/tablets: no taking in (or making) notes; no bags; everything to be stowed in a locker etc.  All fair enough.  I also had to remove my watch, which I found odd.

The surprise/annoyance/offence started when I went to the receptionist to return the laminated sheet and collect a locker key.  She asked if I’d turned off my phone, which I had.  Bearing in mind that my phone would be in the locker, in the waiting room, this seemed like an unnecessary precaution, but since it might disturb other people while they were waiting, didn’t seem totally unreasonable.  She then asked me to show her that it was turned off.  Apparently my word wasn’t good enough.

Having done so (after fishing it back out of my bag) I was permitted to go through another doorway, where a second lady explained the format of the test (which my preparation had already made me aware of).  She then made me show her my hands and wrists, and turn out my pockets.  I still had my keys and change in my pocket, so I had to go back out and put them in the locker.  I then had to turn out my pockets (side and back) to show that they were empty.  At this point, if she had produced an elbow-length rubber glove and forced me to undergo a full cavity search, x-ray and polygraph test, I wouldn’t have been wholly surprised.

Having quelled her suspicions, I was allowed into the exam room, where several signs informed me that I was being monitored by CCTV.  I sat at my allotted screen and took my test, finished, left, was permitted to collect my effects, was given my results and allowed to leave by a different door to the one I entered by.

Now obviously they need to make sure that people don’t cheat on these tests.  I fully appreciate that.  They’re important, and they’re there for a reason.  Telling people that they can’t have phones etc. makes perfect sense, and even having the CCTV there to help spot attempted cheaters doesn’t seem unreasonable.  Stopping cheaters is completely necessary.  The part that annoyed me was when I was asked to show in advance that I wasn’t trying to cheat.

I still have these quaint and archaic ideas about a person being innocent until proven guilty; the idea that it should be assumed that I am not trying to cheat until I am caught cheating, or there is reason to assume that I am trying to.  This is the opposite of what happened.  I was treated as guilty until I proved myself innocent.  Apparently the fact that I was taking the test was sufficient reason to assume that I was trying to cheat.  It was assumed that I had not turned my phone off until I had shown that I had.  It was assumed that I was wearing my watch (beneath which, presumably, information could have been concealed) and had written on my hands, until I proved otherwise.  It was assumed that I had notes or other devices in my pockets until I turned them out.  Why I wasn’t allowed keys or change in there, I have absolutely no idea.  Perhaps I might have a James Bond-esque microradio disguised as a pound coin?

I would like to emphasise that both the ladies involved were never less than courteous, and presumably didn’t write the policies which it is their lot to enforce.  At least, I shall assume so until I see evidence to the contrary.  I might also assume that these draconian and offensive policies have been put in place because many people have tried to cheat, which would be deeply saddening, but I’m not sure whether this is the case, or just the DVSA trying to prevent any such occurrence.

It saddens and angers me that we are all being treated like the lowest common denominator, that it is assumed that we have no sense of personal honour, that, in short, we are not to be trusted.  I meant to say something to the receptionist on the way out, but forgot to.

You might say that we must prove ourselves trustworthy before we are trusted, but that is not the world I wish to live in.  This may be another case of my hopeless and naïve idealism, but I would far rather live in a world in which we must prove ourselves untrustworthy, prove ourselves unworthy of respect, prove ourselves dishonourable and dishonest, or else be assumed to be trustworthy, respectable, honourable and honest.

I can’t force the DVSA to see things my way (although I’ve half a mind to write to them, for all the good it would do), but I can determine to treat others in the way I would wish to be treated.  Everyone is born innocent, and until I see evidence to the contrary, I shall assume that that is still the way they are.

(Oh, and if you're interested, I passed my test.  Hurrah!)