SEVEN months of stalling, being mocked mercilessly by my family, entertaining the Red Alert guards at the black Hilton College gates and numerous wheel screeches at the most embarrassing of times, all culminated in this one day. Today was the day. My driving test had been booked for 1.45 pm at the traffic department in Mkondeni, Pietermaritzburg. As I got out of the car at Mkondeni, I certainly knew that I was in the industrial part of town. A grimy mugginess hung suspended in the afternoon air and the groan of heavy-duty trucks was distantly audible. With shaking legs, I walked across the parking lot to meet my instructor — all the while conscious that my purple jeans clung to my damp skin.