THERE are certain conversations that change your life.
Take, for example, the following:
“You know Dennis who lives across the road?
“Yeah, what about him?”
“His name’s Ken.”
“Oh.”
I’ve been calling him Dennis for almost six years. That may explain why he’s never actually spoken to me. So now I’ve to break a six-year habit. See, life changing.
(If there’s anyone else out there I’ve been calling by the wrong name, now’s the time to let me know.)
Another life-changing conversation occurred in the early years of my secondary school education. Having decided to do the Trócaire 24-hour fast, I went to bed that night a very hungry girl. The next morning, with several hours still to go, I could stand it no more and decided to make myself some breakfast. Naturally, my mother questioned my commitment to the cause. There I was, bowl of cornflakes in one hand and pint of milk in the other, with a belly full of rumbles.
And so, in my half-starved state, I replied the way only a country woman can: “But I’m f***ing starving!”
It was the first time I’d ever sworn in front of my mother. And, quite frankly, it was all downhill from there. So yes, that was another life-changer.
But my most recent was an unwelcome surprise. It happened only last week. I had been up early that morning so I wouldn’t be late for my appointment, had chosen my outfit carefully, and had tried to remain positive and upbeat. But as the hour drew closer, the butterflies in my stomach came out to play, and my knees started to knock.
The waiting room was packed. We were all there for the same reason, so we were all on edge. There was nervous chatter, while the crackle of a radio failed in its attempts to distract people from what was coming. Every few minutes the door would open, everyone would look up expectantly and fearfully, waiting to hear if their name would be called. I watched several people go in, wondering how they would fare, and knowing that I’d never find out because, afterwards, you’re taken out through a different door round the back.
And then it was my turn. I was ushered in and shown to a desk, where I sat opposite the man who would determine my fate. He asked how I was; I told him I was terrified.
After a few routine questions, he got down to the serious stuff. I was asked to sign a piece of paper to say that all the information was correct to the best of my knowledge, while he asked what this and that meant, and what I would do in certain situations.
After he was satisfied that everything was completed and all questions were answered, he motioned for me to follow him out the back. I knew this next part would take about half an hour, and I prayed for it to pass quickly.
Initially, I wasn’t as nervous as I thought I would be, but as the minutes ticked by, I began to panic. My heart thudded in my chest and my legs began to shake. I hoped for the best, but mentally prepared for the worst.
When it was all done, he led me back to his desk. At that stage, I had no idea whether it would be good or bad news. I never used his name, and I certainly didn’t swear, but I knew it was going to be an important conversation. “It’s not good news, I’m afraid”.
And with that, I made my way home, heavy-hearted. All those weeks of planning and preparing, all that money wasted. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, I’ll have to go through it all again sometime in the near future.
Yes, dear readers, I failed my driving test.