voice named Brenda, chirped, “You have arrived at your destination.” I pulled my pristine, dual-controlled Skoda into the cul-de-sac and squinted at the house numbers. 17...18...19. Ah, there it was, number 18. Parked neatly in the driveway was a small, green lawnmower, still warm from a recent cut. An auspicious start.

I checked my notes on the passenger seat. “Barnaby, 19. Has never driven before. Likes… competitive lawnmowing?” I scratched my head. That couldn't be right. I made a mental note to ask him about that later.

As I pulled up, the front door flew open. A lanky teenager with a mop of unruly brown hair burst out, wearing a t-shirt that said "King of the Road" and a look of terrified determination. This must be Barnaby. He carried a small, leather-bound notebook under his arm and was chewing on a thumb with a fervor I hadn't seen since a dog I once owned was introduced to a new squeaky toy.

He scrambled into the passenger seat, his long limbs folding into the small space like a poorly packed deckchair. He immediately pulled out the notebook and a pen. "Alright, so I've studied the Highway Code, chapter by chapter. I've memorized all the road signs. I’ve even done a few laps on the PlayStation, but I’ve heard that's not... a one-to-one parallel."

"It's a good start, Barnaby," I said, trying to sound reassuring while also trying to figure out if he was joking about the PlayStation. "First things first, we'll drive to a nice quiet spot."

The ten-minute drive was a masterclass in controlled paranoia. Barnaby’s breathing was loud and theatrical, and he flinched every time I indicated, as if I were about to launch a missile. His left hand was clamped to the dashboard, and his right hand was gripping his leather-bound notebook so tightly his knuckles were white. He was muttering to himself, a low, constant hum of "mirror, signal, manoeuvre," as if it were a prayer.

We arrived at a deserted industrial estate, a perfect patchwork of empty tarmac, devoid of any other living creatures except a lone pigeon that seemed to be plotting its next move. I pulled to a stop. "Right, Barnaby. This is our quiet space. Time to switch seats."

This simple act proved to be the day's first major obstacle. Barnaby’s legs, which were surprisingly long, seemed to get tangled in the pedals, the steering wheel, and the gearstick all at once. He grunted and puffed, eventually crawling out of the car, looking like a crab attempting a gymnastics routine. He then clambered back in through the driver's side, bumping his head on the roof. He landed in the driver's seat with a thud, still chewing his thumb.

"Right," I said, once the dust had settled. "Let's start with the cockpit drill. It's all about making sure you're comfortable and safe before you even think about moving." I decided to use a client-centered approach, giving him the chance to think for himself. “So, Barnaby, what’s the first thing you think you should do?”

He looked around the car, his eyes wide. He pointed at the air freshener dangling from the mirror. "Check if the little tree smells like pine?"

"Good guess," I said, trying to maintain a straight face. "But maybe we should start a bit closer to you. How about... your seat?"

"Ah! My seat!" he exclaimed, as if a great mystery had been solved. He grabbed the adjustment lever and yanked it. The seat shot forward with a screech, pinning him against the steering wheel. He was now so close his knees were touching the dashboard.

I took a breath and calmly talked him through adjusting his seat properly, his mirrors, and his headrest. I let him find the controls, correcting him gently when he tried to adjust the glove box instead of the side mirror.

“Okay, now the seatbelt,” I prompted. He fumbled for a moment before discovering it and clipping it in with a triumphant click. I could have sworn he saluted it.

"Now, the pedals," I said, pointing to the floor. "There are three. Can you tell me what you think the one on the left does?"

Barnaby leaned down and sniffed it. "It... smells like rubber?"

I sighed internally. "It's the clutch pedal. You need it to change gears. And the one on the far right?"

He looked at me, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. "That one is for... making the car go fast, right? Like in the movies!"

"It's the accelerator," I corrected him gently. "And the one in the middle?"

He paused, a thoughtful frown on his face. "This one... this is for when you want to stop in a hurry, yes? Like if there's a squirrel in the road?"

"Exactly. It's the brake pedal. It stops the car. Now, we're not going to worry about squirrels just yet. Let's get the car moving."

I explained the concept of "finding the bite point" of the clutch. This is the moment where the engine noise changes and the car is ready to move. Barnaby listened intently, his notebook poised.

"Okay, go ahead and give it a go," I encouraged.

He pressed the clutch in, put the car in first gear, and then, with a look of pure focus, began to lift his foot. He lifted it... and lifted it... and nothing happened. The engine just revved slightly.

"A little slower," I advised. "Listen to the sound of the engine."

He nodded, his tongue sticking out in concentration. He tried again. The engine note rose, and the car gave a small, juddering shimmy. He then panicked and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The car lurched forward violently, like a startled kangaroo, and the engine screamed in protest. I hit the dual-control clutch to prevent us from doing an unintended burnout.

"Whoa, Barnaby! That was... enthusiastic," I said, trying to calm the car and myself. "Let's try that one more time. Remember, smooth and slow. We want to be a graceful swan, not a panicked giraffe."

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Right. Graceful swan."

This time, he lifted his foot even more slowly, a millimeter at a time. The engine note changed. The car rumbled. The front wheels started to turn slowly. He was doing it. The car was moving. It wasn't fast. It wasn't straight. It was a bit like a drunk snail, but it was moving.

I looked at him, a genuine smile on my face. He looked at me, a mix of sheer terror and unbridled joy on his face. He’d done it. The car was moving.

The next few minutes were a series of lurches, stalls, and small, triumphant moments of forward motion. We covered all of ten feet, but to Barnaby, it was like crossing the finish line at the Indy 500.

"I did it!" he yelled, pumping his fist in the air. "I'm a graceful swan!"

I just sat back and smiled, knowing that the rest of this journey was going to be an interesting one.

I hope you liked this story!