I used to drive 40,000 sometimes 50,000 miles a year. That’s a lot of hours behind the wheel. I had some fabulous tarmac rippers. Yet I was pretty much Mr Calm at all times. Hey, I’m being held up. The drivers in front are being held up. Sit back. Wait.

Some of my cars, check them in your mirrors, you might be intimidated. The Beast, my stupid Opel Manta 400 (actually not just a 2.4 litre, a 2.8 litre monster, don’t tell the insurers) hey, might feel threatening lurking behind you. Sure. It scared me going to start it up in the morning. And the Beast did lurk. She looked flat out scarey, a real, ‘I could die here! That thing could eat me alive!’

I simply hung back. No point hassling, was there? We’re not going anywhere. Choose some tunes, sit back, wait for things to sort themselves out. No point risking an aneurysm by fretting. Even in one of the most venomous looking (though horribly pretty) cars ever, I’d just sit back and enjoy the scenery. I’d even switch off the powerplant, much as I adored to hear the burbling and popping and banging from the slightly illegal chunk of metal with holes in up front.

My nonchalance used to infuriate repman in his Ford Sierra, especially if I was cruising at the mildly illegal but not copper-alerting 80 in the outside lane with two lanes of traffic to my left. I’d give the car in front some room, just in case the driver did something dumb and anchored up hard for no apparent reason. I hardly ever stressed in a car, ever. I spent too long in the various cars to let it get to me.

Not so Mr Repman. His company Sierra would be right up my arse, headlights flashing, horn blipping. Sometimes said Sierraman would get close enough to administer what in motor racing circles is known as a ‘lovetap.’ Yeah, I got nudged occasionally, even at 80mph. That’s mildly unsettling. But ‘Meh.’ Where do you want me to go, fuckwit? Have a heart attack on me, free.

No road rage my end. Alison, on the other hand… 😊