Second lesson:
I was back at the driving school the next day. Everyone looked surprised to see me. The computer was retrieved, so was the mouse, so was the heater. I settled in and worked for an hour before the internet went off.
While I waited for the network, I asked when I would begin practical lessons on a motorbike. This caused some consternation and a lot of arm-waving. They made a phone call, and, about half an hour later, a man turned up: he spoke excellent English, and he explained that they didn't actually have a motorbike, but they would borrow one, Insh'Allah from another driving school 20 kilometers away. He would let me know when it would be possible, but added that the practical exam was very easy: just slalom between a row of cones and do a couple of figure-of-eights.
He couldn't believe it when I told him I'd never ridden a motorbike. Every Moroccan, male or female grew up sitting on their father's motorbike, between his thighs, with their hands on the handlebars; they probably knew how to ride before they could walk.
I went back to the school several more times, to use the computer, but each time, something failed to work. There was still no bike to learn on and I was becoming frustrated: Their computer never seemed to work properly, or sometimes the screen, or the mouse.
The application showed an image of a situation and gave a listed choice of answers. You have six seconds in which to answer. Meanwhile, the mouse, which was probable possessed, sent the cursor skidding across the screen at random. Sometimes I could answer the questions, many times I was too slow.