Like all sane men I am obsessed with Audrey Hepburn

And it's gonna stay that way.

Recently I revisited the formidable Department of Motor Veehickuls to get a new learner's permit, as I had negligently let my previous one expire on realising I wouldn't need a car. Now I realise I will need a car for my new 'position' in the fall (my fall, possibly from grace), hence the need for a new permit. I hope that's all very clear. Lucid even.

It was quieter than on my previous visit and I wasn't assaulted by small children. As a consequence of letting my permit expire ('foreigns' have shorter permit lifetimes as we are untrustworthy scum with no useful skills who will try and steal jobs from tax-fearing god-paying folk given half a chance) I had to take the 'written' test again.

However this time I had competition. Standing at the counter and handing forms to a tired looking DMV clerk, I noticed that the teenage girl at the next desk was all painted up and preened, ready for a promising career in the non-cerebral sector. When the official took her picture for the license she received highest praise.

"Oh that's a great photo!"

"Oh thank you!"

"You're very photogenic."

"Thank you so much!"

At the same time I was having my picture taken by my official. I had of course turned up sporting a beard, formative moustache and a stunned expression. My photo was met with a grunt and "That one's ok." Marvellous.

Now it's on. Teenage Girl is seated at her computer first to take the multiple choice test, giving her a head start. I'm called over a few minutes later and told to sit in the next booth. Teenage Girl is reading her questions to herself out loud, one syllable at a time. Enchanting. I get to work. Note that the first two questions are 'What is your name?' and 'What is your date of birth?' I ace these while Teenage Girl is still fighting her way through "Wuuuuuhh-ttttt". Thirty questions to go.

I am ashamed to say that I got one question wrong, second guessing myself about the level of allowed blood alcohol (opting for the lowest number when my gut reaction was the highest). Test over, passed, smashed, destroyed, annihilated. I stand up and march triumphantly back to official as Teenage Girl blurts "...name?" somewhere in the far distance.

At the desk the official looks up at me in surprise. I allow no emotion to show on my face. I am unreadable. I am stone. Worriedly she checks her computer to see my result, nervously glancing at me as she taps at the keyboard. And then a smile replaces her concerned expression, like afternoon sun breaking through the clouds.

"You did good!"

"No Madame", I think to myself, "I did well."