It's safe to go back on the road now.

I sent an email around work on Thursday morning, saying I was going home with some work I have to get done by Monday, and mentioning that I was doing my driving test at 3.30pm, so not to call me then.

"And we should all probably stay off the road then too", was the smartass reply from one of my colleagues.

Haha.

Well, it's safe to go back on the road now because I passed my test.

It was actually pretty easy. Or it would have been if I had been able to breathe normally during the test. As it was, I took every opportunity at a traffic light to try to release my death grip on the steering wheel and breathe out from the pit of my stomach, so that I would breathe in again and not pass out from lack of oxygen.

While I was waiting in the test centre, a young girl came in to do her test. She was wearing a pair of denim shorts, fishnet thigh high stockings and a pair of white runners.

Attagirl.

I remember when I wore stuff like that.

Not in a Canadian November of course. Nor for my driving test.

But in the absence of large jangly earrings (for to ensure the tester knows you are looking at the mirrors) it was a show stopper.

The tester didn't know what to look at.

She passed her test of course.

I waited and waited and eventually a smallish man bundled in an enormous anorak, with a buzz cut and the kind of messed up face that would get him a role as the nasty drill sergeant in an edgy war movie came out and said 'Queenie?'.

Damn.

Turns out appearances are deceptive.

He had a South Shore accent, which is a mellifluous hillbilly type affair with just a hint of German in it and which I love. So that helped a little.

He checked my lights and brakes and indicators and horn and then he sat in with his big anorak squashing me into the side of the car, opened the window and said 'now we'll go straight out.'

I was parked nose to nose with a Lexus at a ninety degree angle to the two possible exit roads so I knew straight out was not literally what he meant.

Nova Scotians are nothing if not vague about directions. You go down to Cape Breton from Halifax. I go up to Cape Breton. I have had two hour rows with Cape Bretoners over this. You go up to Windsor. I go over. You go along the shore. I go up or down. You always go down the Valley. I go to the Valley and then down. Or up. Depending on where I'm starting from.

So I just asked, even though I wasn't supposed to talk to him. He waved vaguely in the direction of the road with the enormous puddle in it. The one with the blind spot and the sharp turn left and the ridiculous right of way system.

Great. I was sure it would have been the other one. I had even parked the car so I could easily reverse out to the other side.

I gingerly put the car in reverse and started backing out to the left, which I can't do properly, thinking, well, if I get past this bit without him writing on the sheet he had hidden by his enormous anorak I'm sorted.

Halfway through the nightmare of getting out of the carpark, turning left onto the feeder road, trying to figure out whether I could drive on the left to get past the puddle, gunning her through and up the hill, he swept his hand under the anorak and scribbled something.

Damn.

It was 3.45pm so it was rush hour in Halifax.

We did a lot of queuing for lights and I had to do the left hand turn onto Connaught from Chebucto which is a Kamikaze turn during a gap in the traffic at the best of times, then some more driving around Halifax's key arterial roads, changing lanes between the hurtling SUVs and then he directed me into a residential area and got me to park along the kerb.

Empty kerb mind. No cars to park between like in Ireland. Except there were so many leaves on the side of the road you couldn't actually see the grass kerb.

Not that that bothered a girl who learned how to parallel park with her father and assorted farmers/ vets/ assistants/ office staff and neighbours standing around with their arms folded and big grins on their faces every time.

After I parked he said good.

I nearly died of shock. It wasn't that good. Just straight and flush to the kerb, like it's supposed to be.

The Queen Father would have been proud.

"Now, we'll start again", he said, "this is your hill start."

It was almost flat. Dundrum Hill it wasn't. I had a brief memory flash of my first test, trying to hill start the Charade on Dundrum Hill with an enormous instructor and a broken clutch (which I didn't realise at the time) before I put failure OUT of MY MIND and drove through a four way stop without even realising it was there.

Double damn.

Then we tootled back onto the main road and back to the carpark, where I reversed parked the car assways into the slot twice, leaving no room on the passenger side either side because I can't get used to turning my head right to reverse. I had a third try in reserve, but I had had enough at that point, so I just gave up and turned off the engine.

"You might want to throw your eye over your shoulder occasionally, check your blind spots, just using the mirrors isn't enough", he said in his kind voice.

"And you didn't use your indicator on that first turn off."

"But that's alright now, there you go now, take this inside and give it to them."

I stared at him beseechingly.

"You've passed."

"Oh, thank you thank you thank you."

He smiled and opened the door the four inches I had left on his side and squeezed himself and his enormous anorak out and hobbled off.

I texted Himself.

Then I texted the Queen Mother.

Then I called the office and said it was safe to go back on the road.

Then I went to the liquor store and bought something to restore my nerves.

Boy am I glad that is over.

I ain't emigrating anywhere else ever again.