how to pass your driving test

At the first set of traffic lights he enquired about my job. At the second set he asked about my holiday plans. By the third set, Alan and I had become firm friends. "The examiner is no longer the sort of man who comes out of a cupboard in the morning," he explained mysteriously, before telling me to follow the road ahead unless traffic signs directed me otherwise or I was requested to turn.

For some reason the Paul Simon song "You Can Call Me Al" had immediately entered my head - stubbornly refusing to budge until I had parked back at the centre - when Alan greeted me with a broad grin at the start of the test. I knew his name was Alan because it was printed, in small neat letters, on the glossy lapel badge just above the neatly-clipped pen protruding from his top pocket. Being the suspicious type I assumed the ability to read the letters was a test of my optical soundness, on a par with reading the registration plates of a nearby car.

"Ha, ha," chuckled Alan when I told him this. "Very funny. No, the badge is actually quite important. Among other things, it is a symbol. It shows we are no longer hiding behind our past image. It means I am a person as opposed to an examiner."

This Prisoner-speak is all very well, but driving examiners are not supposed to be people. They are not supposed to have first names, let alone advertise them on glossy lapel badges. They are not supposed to take a firm grip of your sweat-drenched hand and ask whether you'd prefer to be called Mr Clavane or Anthony. And they are certainly not supposed to come over all jokey and matey, particularly during traffic light stops. It is most off-putting.

Being a caring chap, Alan is careful not to pause pregnantly, sigh menacingly or ostentatiously mark a cross in one of his neat little boxes every time there is a minor hiccup, like stalling at a roundabout. He knows how such insensitive gestures simply inject yet more fear and panic into an already purgatorial ordeal. Instead he nods his head a great deal. He understands. And if you understand that he understands, and that examiners are more worried about their position as public hate figures than the position of your hands on the steering wheel, a full driver's licence is there for the taking.

Of course, looking in your mirror at appropriate intervals, reversing into side-roads and taking precautions before starting the engine (I never discovered what these "proper" precautions were: remembering to put your keys in, perhaps, or checking you've got into the right car?) are still important. But not as important as relating to the examiner on a one-to-one basis.

The image consultants and marketing men have hijacked an unlikely profession. "I've no axe to grind," he reassures me as I start shaking in anticipation of the emergency stop. "We only want to see how well a person can drive." Instead of crashing his fist down

on the dashboard, he lifts up his right hand as if giving a royal wave. I do not disappoint him. "I won't ask you to do that again," he smiles.

My heart is racing as we return to the centre for the de-briefing. After a stuttering performance on the Highway Code bit I brace myself for the inevitable thumbs-down. "I am pleased to tell you, Anthony, that you have passed." Resisting a surprisingly strong urge to kiss Alan, I tell him how wonderful it feels to be no longer branded a four-wheeled failure.

Alan winces when I mention the F-word. Failure has no place in a modern, customer-friendly examiner's vocabulary. "Look," he repeats, becoming a tad irritated. "I've no axe to grind. A so-called failure sheet is not to your detriment. It is meant to help you." He sighs. "As you can clearly see, I'm no ogre."

ANTHONY CLAVANE

Driving Standards Agency, Stanley House, Talbot Street, Nottingham NG1 5GU (0115 955 7600)