I set my alarm for 6.55am; at least, I thought I did. I woke up at 6.54am to discover that I hadn’t set it at all. An incredible thing, the human body. Especially mine. Mmm, yes. Anyway, with my driving test set for an absurd 9.37am kickoff, my evangelical Christian driving instructor arranged a driving lesson for an absurd 8am kickoff in the environs of South Norwood. I have come to hate the environs of South Norwood. It’s dishevelled, utterly without character, and I failed my driving test there 2 weeks ago. Ghastly place.

The lesson, once again, consisted of my instructor trying to get me to take some kind of pill to help me calm down. Her glove compartment is stuffed with remedies for anxiety, and she’s diving in there all the time to hand out drugs to her pupils. I’ve resisted all along, unconvinced of the merits of taking an aptitude test while zonked off one’s bonce on loony tablets. Ever since she told me that you can’t take the pills if you’ve got asthma, I’ve just told her that I have asthma, which I don’t, really. Wheeze, wheeze. At one point she asked me to pull over, and she felt my pulse. “It’s too fast,” she said, waving the tablets at me. “Believe me,” I said, “that’s nothing compared to the rate I reach before a gig with Double G And The Traitorous 3. Put your tablets away. I will now ride the fear like a f*cking b*cking bronco.”

So, I had the same bloody examiner as last time. Just my luck. He asked me how to check that your power steering is working. I didn’t bloody know, did I, or at least I did, but couldn’t remember, I have far too many things to remember as it is. “POWER steering,” he said. “POWER.” He was clearly trying to give me a clue, but I couldn’t work it out. “Power,” I muttered. “Yes, POWER.” There was a long pause. He sighed. “Right, drive off, when you’re ready.”

I drove marginally better than last time, by which I mean I didn’t go on any pavements. After 45 minutes we pulled up outside the testing centre, and the git adopted the same tone he did last time. “Well, Mr Marsden…” You bastard, I thought. “You’ve passed,” he said, “but only just. I’m not entirely certain that you should pass, to tell you the truth.” How dare he take the gloss off my big moment? I made a snap decision not to hug him and give him a big kiss, and instead I slumped back, feeling a bit deflated. Then I cheered up. It’s not like your number of faults goes on your driving license, is it? When two people have a minor collision on a suburban high street, they tend not to shout “You idiot!” “What are you playing at?” “How many minor faults did you incur on your driving test? TWELVE? Well, I only got TEN!” “What were they? What? You failed to indicate before signalling left turns and subsequently hesitated at major road junctions? You PRICK!”

Anyway, he reluctantly handed me my pass certificate, and advised me to take a Pass Plus course. Yeah, right. I’ve done driving, now. Under my belt. Now it’s time to move on to other activities that scare the bejesus out of me. First, book a dental appointment. Then throw myself out of a Cessna aircraft, and then, when I’ve had my tea, join the Territorial Army.