‘Are you sure you don’t want to drive the Metro?’
‘Um, yes, I think so. I’ve never driven one of those before.’
‘So, to be clear, you want to do this in that?’
‘If that’s okay?’
‘Well yes, I suppose so. Let’s get on with it then.’
So went my conversation with the driving examiner when I pitched up at the test centre in a beige short-wheelbase Series III Land Rover equipped with a Safari roof, a distinctly non-standard rev-counter and a pair of L-plates. It was Friday 10 December 1982, and I’d driven into town with my father who’d then walked to his office. I asked how I might get home if I failed and he just pointed to my feet. It was only seven miles.
