Carol’s Column

The dread K53 drives you mad

WHILE the ANC has been discussing the future of South Africa in Durban this week, on a lesser front, the members of this household have also had their fair share of agonising.

And, as at the ANC congress, tensions are running high. Why? It’s simple. The flower of my eyeballs, my daughter of the curling eyelashes and merry smile is to take her driving test.

In the old days, a driving test was a relatively easy affair. That was before the dread K53 test came into being last year.

Billed as “a new test for a new generation” by some, it’s been described as an endurance feat by others.

However, practice makes perfect. Unfortunately, a practising daughter implies a mother with whom she practises.

For example. “I’m just popping up to the shops,” I said.

“I’ll take you,” replied Nicky, so out we trotted.

I climbed into the passenger seat. And waited. Dammit! Why was she taking so long?

“C’mon,” I yelled.

“Ma, I’m checking.”

“What are you looking for? A limpet mine? Ha, ha.”

“Yes,” said my daughter somewhat coolly. “I have to check there’s no obstruction under the vehicle. I also have to check the boot and bonnet are secure, take a look at the tyres, fuel cap, reflectors, light lenses, windscreen wipers and number plates. Then I have to open the bonnet and check the oil, water, brake fluid and battery.”

“This can take three weeks,” I muttered.

“There’s worse,” she added darkly. “That was just the exterior. There’s the interior too.”

Later, much later, we departed.

I watched my daughter and observed she’d developed some peculiar habits.

“Why is your head swivelling?” I asked.

“What do you mean ‘swivelling’?” she replied.

“You keep swivelling.”

“Ma, I’m looking for my blind spots,” she said. “Before I drive off, change lanes, or turn, I have to check blind spots.”

Huh. In all these years, I’d never even realised I had blind spots, let alone lost them. Furthermore, in all these years, my car had never seen such action.

The gears, the clutch, the handbrake, the indicator, the steering, in, out, up, down, like a Boeing 747 pilot in full throttle, my daughter concentrated fiendishly, a study of perpetual motion. It was exhausting.

“Why don’t you change down,” I suggested as we approached a robot.

She was scandalised. “Ma, Mr Busch says you never change down. If you change down to slow down, you immediately lose points. To slow, you brake gently.”

It was the last suggestion I made. In fact, it’s not an exaggeration to say that Mr-Busch-the-driving-teacher has taken over my daughter’s life.

Yesterday Nicky moved out of the house into the motor car. “Mr Busch says I must practise night and day,” she said.

As the day of the test draws nigh, I notice Nicky is not without anxiety.

“Perhaps we should install a radar device in the car,” she said at dinner last night, her head swivelling away — I think swivelling is habit forming. “It would give me ample warning of approaching cars and other hazards.”

“Nicky, relax, this is only a driving test you’re taking,” I said.

“Ma, this is not a driving test. This test makes the Spanish Inquisition look like a picnic,” said Nicky dramatically. “There can be nothing worse in life.”

Of course, this was not the moment to point out that indeed, there could be something worse in life.

That would be having to repeat the K53.

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