Seven Driving Tests

I passed my driving test on my eighth attempt, aged 34. I'd like to tell you the first seven were close, but on the third one the examiner ended it after nine minutes.

Everyone has advice when you keep failing. Have a banana. Take a beta blocker. Book it for 10am, not 2pm. My mum lit candles. My dad, who has never once indicated in his life, told me the problem was that I was overthinking it.

The worst part wasn't the money, though I worked out I'd spent more on lessons than the car was worth. It was telling people. By number five I'd stopped mentioning I had one booked, so I could fail in private and take the bus home with my dignity and a very sad meal deal.

On test seven I reversed neatly round a corner, felt incredibly pleased with myself, and then drove straight through a red light.

For the eighth, I told nobody and changed instructor. The new one asked what I was actually scared of. Nobody had asked me that. It was roundabouts, specifically the one by the retail park. We drove it forty times in one month.

I got three minors and cried on a stranger's dog outside the test centre. I still avoid that roundabout, and I don't care who knows it.

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