Driven to distraction

Why don't they lock me up and throw away the key? I've recently failed my driving test for the sixth time (seventh according to my son) and what I want to know is this - if I am such an awful driver then why the hell don't they just take me away? But no! I'm condemned to drive all over the country as a provisional, with L-plates, putting the citizens of Ireland at great risk.

I must be driving sideways. Here comes Mary Rose, zapping around like a mad woman with the top of my head just barely visible over the steering wheel. My parking is deadly. My overtaking is demonic. They should take the keys off me and send me home on a broomstick.

In Germany, they now offer you psychiatric counselling if you've failed the test twice. At my rate, they should be declaring me insane. Psychotic! This woman is armed and dangerous. Do not approach. My driving must be bizarre and unprecedented. I know the rules of the road like my cathechism. But it's sympathy I need. I need that stoney-faced vegetable with the clipboard to give me a break. Just once.

I've tried everything. I did the test once while I was nine months pregnant, with my stomach pressed against the steering wheel. I tried it in a mini skirt with Yield Right-of-Way earrings. On another occasion, I sat on an inflated cushion for extra height with my head pressed against the roof of the car and the examiner staring up at me. Failed again. I had my employers write a letter saying they would fire me if I didn't pass. No use.

"Position on the road", "left turn", "right turn", "mirror", "indicators", "hill stop": all the things I passed with honours in the first test have steadily got worse and worse over the years. On the third test, an ambulance stopped in front of me and I had to let all these old people off before I could proceed. I was showing "due consideration?", but the tester just cold-heartedly dismissed my kindness as "lack of progress".

When I asked him why, he just answered in that monotone growl, like one of those talking clocks. "I am not at liberty to discuss with you the particulars of your driving test." And these people never look you in the eye. Is there some deep shame this examiner was concealing? Is there some traffic regulation he flouted in the past? Some hit-and-run type situation where he drove over a cat and failed to stop?

How do I get beyond the impenetrable, armour-plated skull of a tester? Should I stick a luminous statue of Our Lady on the dashboard? Erect a shrine to Saint Christopher? Should I put on a tape of Mary Black; or maybe spray Obsession all over the car? Cellotape money to the dashboard? Perhaps I should get somebody else to sit the test for me. Or should I just bring a chainsaw?

I've been driving for 15 years now. I'm an experienced lady driver. OK, my mother was nicknamed Crash Doorly. And there was an occasion when a parked car came out of nowhere and rammed its left flank into the back of me. And an old woman with crutches once threw herself out behind me while I was reversing out the driveway. Of course, I took evasive action and stopped the car just in time. There wasn't a scratch on her. But she picked up her crutches and ran into the nearest solicitor's office before I could ask what the hell she was up to.

With that much experience behind me now, I felt confident enough to have another go. This time just as plain old me - courteous and considerate. Smiling, genuine, serious, and attentive. I practised looking in the mirror at home. I did a full course of driving instructions, given by one of those very pleasant Ex-Tester people who seem to go through a complete personality transformation once they give up testing. This fellow said I was brilliant. I would walk through the test, hands down.

In the waiting room in Churchtown, there was a group of nervous women, chatting, passing around chewing gum and going to the loo at least 10 times. Some of them were still at the mini-skirt stage. One of them told me her husband had promised her a brand new car if she got the test. But I knew these women were going to be condemned to the limbo of provisionalism. They were silly, provo drivers. And I was getting out.

I had been reformed by an ex-tester. When my name was called out, it sounded like I was going for another lumpectomy.

I should have asked for a full anaesthetic. I started getting confused again, and getting the speed-limit signs mixed up with the 10 commandments. I remembered reading how women's brains were shaped differently to those of men. How men think in straight lines and women think more holisticly. How women are more socially adept. But what good is holistic driving? How can I show off my social skills behind the wheel?

I did a brilliant three-point turn. My hill-stop was definitely creative. After all it was category B; I don't want to drive lorries or single decker buses. And I have no ambitions in uphill truck racing. Besides, I already have a full Canadian licence since the age of 18. I've driven all over the Dingle peninsula. I've done the corkscrew bends in the Burren. But let's face it, only a mere 45 per cent of people pass on any given day. They don't really want you to pass. And once more, I failed. This time he said I couldn't even handle the gears properly. And I failed to use the clutch.

I wonder should I go to the Ombusdman? I can appeal to the District Court, but it has no power to reverse the decision. Perhaps I should have an independent assessor in the back seat. My son thinks I should just go for The Guinness Book Of Records - apparently the record now stands at 43 failures - only 36 more to go.