Three initials strike cold fear into the heart of even the stoutest Bermudian: TCD.

It used to be said (not by me, I hasten to add) that if you couldn't cut the mustard at the Immigration Department, they transferred you to TCD. This base and unfounded jibe is no longer true, for Transport Control is now as efficient as any Government department, for what that's worth. Everyone wears purple, and it's made a real difference.

I bought a used car the day before it became legal to buy used cars in Bermuda. Call me a trend-setter, but never a felon: the one I bought was legal. At least, it started out that way. Mine is a sorry tale of a fall from grace, professional-type dude to man on the run.

Extended negotiations had the transfer slip down to two days' validity when I coughed up the cash for the wheels, so a spot of frantic documentation was called for. The bank's money bought me the car's registration, the transfer slip, and a bill of sale; an hour's queuing at a plush but under-staffed Hamilton office provided the insurance certificate; my landlady dutifully filled out the licence application.

Armed thus with more paper than a public toilet, I hocked the cat, and headed down to TCD on foot, I might add, since I was as yet only a car-owner, not an authorised driver. Following the letter of the law, and a lengthy detour back o' tarn to see friends, I entered the Examination Centre at exactly 3 p.m.

Of March, it was the last day, a bad omen. Beware the ends of March, someone said. I took a number: it was C78. The old clock on the wall said Now Serving 48. Thirty people ahead of me.

I took a seat, in front of a sign to the effect that holders of the letter B were now being seen. One hundred and thirty people in front of me. Settling in for the long haul, I noticed that the metal seat was a tad uncomfortable. Half an hour saw six people served. The temperature, like a drugged hippie, crept into the 70s, and the smell of frustration mingled with various couturier perfumes and some less desirable odours I'd rather not discuss.

Slumping in the chair with one's head on the fake windowsill (you'd have to see it) improved matters no end. Sluggish mental calculations revealed that I might reasonably expect to be served around lunchtime the following day. Large metal signs plastered all over the building stated that last orders would be placed at 4.40, but the reasonable man ignores metal signs.

All right, I admit it, I fell asleep. Just sort of slipped away in the sweltering March heat - how do they manage that? Outside it was 50 degrees - and caught 40 winks at the rate of one wink a minute. I recall dreaming about flying free over the North Shore before crashing into the incinerator chimney.

(Note: unlike Superman, I had my underwear on the inside. Decency and I are partners in everything I do, and some of the things I dream.) I woke up to find I'd missed my turn by three numbers. No amount of tears, begging, threats or bribes would alter the lostness of my cause. While I was being Superman, B had become C, 54 had become 81, and I had blown my only chance of becoming a registered car-owner in the Somers Isles. The next day was already written off to unavoidable work, and there was a three-week waiting list for the transfer test I was about to need anew.

The car awaited my attention in the City Hall parking lot. To move it would be a crime, to pay three weeks' parking a disaster. My nap, all 40 minutes' worth, was going to cost hundreds of dollars.

Well, it didn't. I won't bore you with the steps it took to regularise matters in a legal fashion, because frankly I couldn't. My life is only now starting to recover from what it took to enrol me in the car-drivingclasses. TCP is an antiseptic.

TCB - taking care of business - was Elvis Presley's motto for managing his life.

TCD is a Government thing: you wouldn't understand.

No caption RG MAGAZINE JULY 1993