It took me 17 years and seven attempts to pass my driving test

As a child, it took me a long time to write my own name. In fact, aged six, I remember being taken out of lessons so I could be assessed by an expert. It had been suggested to my parents that I had a learning disorder, and so they sought help.
But my reading age was above what was expected; the expert, confused, ruled out dyslexia.
I plodded on at my preparatory school, Beaudesert Park in Gloucestershire, not really enjoying lessons at all apart from Art, English and Pottery. I struggled academically and was appalling at sport but would read voraciously in bed until gone midnight when my parents thought I was asleep.
Instinctively, I knew my brain worked differently to most of my peers but, as I grew older, more academic and confident, I didn't worry so much about this 'imaginary friend' that had grown with me over the years.
In my last year reading French and Spanish at Edinburgh University, a friend who had just been diagnosed with dyslexia and been given extra time in her exams encouraged me to go to the university disability centre and get tested.
It was true that I could not navigate the uni library at all and hence a visit there usually ended in tears – not to mention the fact I always seemed to need more time to complete my work. I made an appointment and went along, underwhelmed and not remotely expectant of any extraordinary outcome.
My instincts could not have been more wrong. I was booked in for a formal assessment, and during this process I had to do puzzles and other spatial-awareness exercises. The lady who delivered my results tried to stifle a nervous giggle as she told me: 'You are one of the most dyspraxic people I have ever met – I'm surprised you've navigated mainstream education with it.'
This was a dizzying conclusion to my educational career. I felt ecstatic, relieved and thankful in equal measure. This imaginary friend of mine, who had tagged along with me for the past 23 years, was in fact a learning disability called dyspraxia. I wished I had known, but I was also grateful that I hadn't – perhaps I would have sat back on my laurels, not pushing myself and accepted defeat.
Driven to despair
Unfortunately that sense of relief was not permanent, as I soon discovered my dyspraxia had had a very real effect on my ability to drive – or not. A lot of dyspraxic people, who essentially struggle with spatial coordination as well as fine and gross motor skills, cite problems with learning to drive.
In this sense I was not alone, but I wished I had known about it when I first started to learn aged 17. Everyone else had passed their test at my school apart from me. My driving, or lack of, had turned into an in-house joke among my family and friends – and fair enough.
We lived in Bisley, Gloucestershire, in the Slad Valley, and it was pretty rural. Stroud was our nearest town and about 15 minutes away. I was fortunate that my younger sister, Natasha, drove me around as well as my parents and occasional boyfriend. Before I had even left for Argentina on my gap year in 2000, I had completed around 80 hours of driving lessons in two years with five different instructors. All the lessons would follow a pattern: the first would go more or less okay, but then, inevitably, the instructor would have to grab the wheel when I did something dangerous and unexpected. It took its toll on me… and them.
As a result, the instructors didn't last long and always looked a bit pale at the end of our hour. My parents, who were so kind and kept booking me lessons, would listen patiently as the various instructors explained what I had done wrong, such as going round the roundabout the wrong way.
I recall my father enquiring as to whether he ought to take me out driving one day instead of the instructor. 'Ooh, no,' came the reply. 'Not without the dual controls. That wouldn't be advisable.'
On another occasion, Colin, my sister Natasha's instructor – she had passed rather infuriatingly the first time around – said to my mother, 'We have a problem. She can't drive.' He added, 'We have three options: marry Prince William, get a chauffeur or go automatic.' We decided to work backwards, even if my mother would have preferred to start with option one.
Stuck in neutral
Unfortunately, going automatic didn't make too much of a difference. A lot of driving lessons still ended in tears and I failed my first test in 2000, when I was 20, in Cheltenham. It was over within the first minute, after I failed to have the correct response to an ambulance whizzing past us.
By this point I have to admit I was close to giving up. But I was somewhat reassured by my friend Richard who would sit in the back of the car reading the newspaper in his dressing gown, wondering what all the fuss was about. (I don't think Richard can drive yet himself, but he lives in London and doesn't have children so he has no burning need.)
I decided to pause the driving lessons while I was doing my degree, planning to take up driving again later on. I thought with age I might improve – but I was wrong. Unfortunately, this was the worst possible thing I could have done. Fast-forward 10 years and I was living in the countryside and pregnant with my fourth child. We lived in a very rural area and weren't on a bus route. As my husband Charlie says, you know you're in trouble when you are Googling 'can you take a ride-on lawnmower on a main road?'.
I found various automatic instructors in Essex. The first two men were fired by me for different reasons. One started shouting when I did something unexpected and the other kept banging on about his love life and the women who fancied him. I dubbed him George Clooney as he did look a bit like him.
That year, in 2014, I attempted five different tests. My second and third tests were in Bury St Edmunds and my fourth, fifth and sixth tests were in Colchester. Yes, I failed five tests in one year.
It was all a bit much given that I was pregnant, so I was quite pleased when my fourth child, Celestia, made an early appearance. She, like me, was clearly bored of it all too.
Gear change
After the newborn haze was over I dragged myself back to the wheel, this time in Clacton-on-Sea with new instructor Sue. I wished I had met Sue in the beginning. She was so encouraging. Thanks to her upbeat personality and all the conversations we shared over her past career as a foster parent (as well as the lack of roundabouts in Clacton), my confidence was restored.
In 2015, when Celestia was eight months old, I passed my test. Sue winked at me and said, 'Shall we pretend to Charlie (my husband) that you haven't passed?' No, came the reply. 'He's had enough bad news! He doesn't need to hear that again,' I said.
Charlie had been a total rock during the process. He had done countless school runs, driven me to play dates, toddler groups and, aside from the odd food delivery, every pint of milk delivered to our fridge was thanks to his efforts. The look of relief on his face when I told him I had passed on my seventh attempt was priceless. Even baby Celestia looked ecstatic and somehow understanding of this family landmark.
I celebrate my 10-year anniversary as a driver on July 7, two days before our 20th wedding anniversary. I said to myself that I would never complain about doing the school run after I passed, but I'm sorry to say that I have. I do enjoy being able to drive myself and other people to places, and never take that for granted.
My advice to anyone in the same boat is simple: don't settle for a driving instructor who doesn't make you feel comfortable and don't let anyone write you off as someone who shouldn't ever drive. If I can do it, so can you. Yesterday I braved two motorways with a moaning teenager in the back.
Believe in yourself – and don't give up.

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