I love my job...
But like all jobs, there is always the proverbial 'fly-in-the-ointment', and with my job it is the Driving Standards Agency.
Although I am a self employed motorcycle instructor, the DSA firmly believe I work for them. Sure, they are responsible for driving & riding tests and all instructors must be approved by them (which makes sense) and there are some very decent and well-intentioned people working for them, but the agency itself has lost direction...
Some parts of the motorcycle test have now deteriorated into a farce - an extremely expensive (and, dare I say it, dangerous) farce, because the DSA have spent a small fortune on the implication of a new test and one part of that test (avoidance and controlled stop) is almost impossible to practice before the test. The test is so specific the only way to practice it is to use a test centre facility at the weekend, however, to be fair, the facility is hired out to instructors for free.
Okay, what's the problem there, I hear you ask. Well, the DSA never managed to build enough of these mega expensive test centres, which leaves many people with at least an hours ride to get to one - also, trying to book a practice session is akin to finding hen's teeth in a haystack.
But, four weeks ago I managed to book two x half hour practice slots for today. It was the first time I'd managed this feat.
I duly arrived with my two students and was greeted by a DSA-appointed official who acknowledge I had the two slots booked and I was then invited to 'sign in'.
And that was when the fun went out of the day because he needed to see my 'Card'. This is like a licence issued to trainers by the DSA, and (you've guessed it) I didn't have it with me. No one, not even the DSA, had bothered to mention I would need it. I knew my certificate number which was required on the form, but he insisted, "You could be anyone".
"Ask all these other instructors standing around. They know me!"
"Sorry" (and trust me, he did actually say these very words) "It's more than my jobs worth".
Having tried a few futile attempts to talk him around, we sidled away to consider our options - which were basically just one, to go away.
After a few minutes a couple of the other instructors came up to me. Word had obviously gotten around, and they wanted to use my precious slots.
"To use them, we must have your consent as the approved instructor who has booked the slots".
"But the little man over there doesn't believe I am that person!"
"Well, he said you must give your permission".
And maybe you can see why I titled this blog as I did. Had my logic suddenly desserted me, or was this an appropriate time to bang my head against the nearest wall?
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