Do you remember taking your driving test?

A few weeks ago, my memory cells were stirred into active mode by an obituary notice that appeared in the paper.

Hands up if you remember Norman Radcliffe, a one time driving test examiner?

To the best of my memory, I think that there were three test examiners, but I can only recall the names of two.

There was a Mr Shimmin, Norman Radcliffe, and one other, (possibly called Taggart).

I’m sure that someone will know his name, but we shall see.

Anyway, I took my first test and failed. My examiner was Mr Shimmin.

I tried again a month later. Again, my examiner was Norman Radcliffe. This time I passed.

Over the years, the driving test and its folklore has entertained many a public bar audience.

Everyone had their favourite story. The dog that ran in front of the test car and failed the driver because he (a) swerved to avoid the animal, or (b) didn’t. And the old favourite about the examiner who shot from his seat when the driver mistook his signal for the emergency stop.

I should point out that seat belts had not yet been invented.

I don’t suppose that the test has changed all that much through the years.

Basically, in my day all you had to was to show that you were competent and safe to be in command of a potentially lethal weapon.

You were expected to have studied and understood the highway code booklet and you had to demonstrate that you had mastered the art of waving your arm through an open window.

There were certain rituals that had to be observed.

For example, moving off.

First, you had to look in the mirror and check for traffic approaching from behind. Then, signal your intentions in the correct manner. If the road is clear, move safely away. Still remembered after more than 60 years: mirror, signal, manoeuvre.

Now, if you were driving along the Peel Road and turned left at the Quarter Bridge roundabout towards Castletown, immediately on your left and just behind the pub, there is an enclosed open space called the Quarter Bridge yard.

This was the works HQ of the Isle of Man Highway and Transport Board.

As well as being home to a multitude of different departments, this was the start and finish of your driving test.

This was where you waited for your examiner to climb into your passenger seat.

’Hello’ he said. ’I’m Mr Shimmin, and I would like you to read that number plate on that wall.’

We we were off. We arrived back in an hour’s time.

You’ve failed, he said as he handed me a sheet of paper. You can re-apply in one month. So I did.

’Hello’ he said, ’I’m Norman Radcliffe’.

We were off. The routine was always the same. Read the number plate and head up Quarter Bridge Road in the direction of Onchan and turn into Devonshire Road.

Stop and start on a hill, without rolling backwards, reverse into a narrow lane, a three-point turn in a quiet street (try finding one of them today) and back to the Yard.

You’ve passed, he said and handed me a different piece of paper.

As the years went by Norman declared me competent to ride a motorcycle and, finally, drive an HGV.

He enjoyed his retirement but sadly was predeceased by his wife, Betty.

I hadn’t seen him for a while until one day, I was visiting a friend in a well-known residential home.

The residents’ names were on their doors, and there was Norman Radcliffe. A comfortable chair, a sunlit room, and fast asleep. Sometime later, his obituary was in the paper.

He had passed his test. Rest in peace.