Some of You Should Not Have Licences and I’m Done Pretending Otherwise
Disclaimer: This post is tongue in cheek. Mostly.
If you think I need therapy, you’re welcome to fund it. Until then, you’ll have to suffer my rage.
I’ve been driving for nineteen years. Nineteen. That is long enough to know I am not the world’s best driver. It is also long enough to confidently state that some people on the road appear to have obtained their licence from Toy Town, supervised by Noddy, with Big Ears signing off the paperwork.
Lately, my tolerance has evaporated. I don’t know if it’s perimenopause, cumulative rage, or the fact I recently mastered reverse parking into an actual parking space after nineteen years, and it’s made me wildly overconfident, but something has shifted. Driving now feels less like transport and more like a daily obstacle course designed specifically to test my remaining grip on sanity.
So welcome to the One Frazzled Mum driver rant.
If you feel personally attacked at any point, that’s between you and your driving instructor.
One-Way Roads Are Not Advanced Physics
If you do not know how to exit a one-way road, you should not be driving. I don’t care who you are. Taxi. Uber. Delivery driver. Surgeon. Priest. National treasure.
It is not complicated. There are arrows. There are signs. There is logic.
And yes, I will pull up beside you in the correct lane and perform an exaggerated, sarcastic little “no, please, after you” gesture while my face radiates pure disdain and loathing. Not disappointment. Not mild irritation. Loathing. You will feel it.
The Driving Version of Manspreading
Why do some people insist on positioning their car directly in the middle of the road when waiting to turn right, even though there is clearly enough space for one car to turn left beside them?
Why do you need all that space?
Who told you this was your personal kingdom?
This is the driving equivalent of manspreading, and I will die on this hill.
Share the road. Other people exist.
Emergency Vehicles Are Not a Personality Test
Sirens are not confusing.
You do not need to panic brake.
You do not need to stop in the middle of the road.
You do not need to freeze like you’ve just been handed a maths paper.
You do not need to swerve unpredictably like a startled deer.
You indicate.
You pull over (if it’s safe to do so, just get out the way).
That’s it. That’s the whole instruction.
We are grown adults with licences. Why is this apparently so challenging?
Middle Lane Hoggers: A Psychological Study
Why, when the motorway is empty, are you cruising at 49mph in the middle lane?
Who are you doing this for?
What trauma occurred in your childhood that made the left lane feel unsafe?
Is the left lane haunted?
I am genuinely grinding my teeth just thinking about it. Jaw locked. Eye twitch engaged. Entire nervous system braced like I’m about to enter combat.
Please move.
Indicators Are Not A Luxury Add-On
I would like to formally request that when people buy certain cars — particularly Audis and BMWs — they consider splashing out on the optional extras.
Not leather seats.
Not heated steering wheels.
Not mood lighting.
The indicator package.
Highly recommended.
Because sometimes, tragically, I forget to bring my mind-reading abilities with me when I leave the house. And without them, I cannot predict your spontaneous lane changes, surprise turns, or interpretive dance approach to roundabouts.
If you do not want to see a slightly feral, extremely unhinged middle-aged woman doing her best Eleven impression while she pretends to yeet your car into the Mersey with her mind and pure rage at the next set of lights, then use the indicators. It’s really that simple.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Put. The. Phone. Down.
We can see you.
You think we can’t. But we can.
Your head is down. Your eyes are not on the road. Your car is drifting. You are not subtle.
And if you’re not on your phone, then I have even more questions. Because I do not want to die on my way to Lidl, and I also do not want to witness whatever is apparently so captivating under your steering wheel. This is a family road. Hands visible. Eyes forward. Please and thank you.
Public service announcement. Apparently.
People Who Cut You Off and Then Act Confused
Let’s talk about the ones who cut you off so badly you have to slam on, but then carry on with their day blissfully unaware, as if nothing happened.
I never beep. Not because I’m calm. But because I’m too busy focusing on not rear-ending you and mentally calculating my excess.
Instead, I throw my hands up. Loudly. Dramatically. Like I’m auditioning for the lead role in What The Hell Was That.
And then, internally, I curse you with minor lifelong inconveniences.
Not death. I’m not a monster.
I don’t want you in hell with me.
I want you on Earth, mildly inconvenienced forever.
May you step in water every day while wearing socks.
May those socks never fully dry.
May your sleeve always catch on door handles.
May your favourite Tesco meal deal always be out of stock when you really need it.
I am petty. I embrace it. This is personal growth.
School Run Drivers Are a Different Species
School run time is not just busy.
It is lawless.
The parking.
The double parking.
The random stopping with zero warning.
The hazards-on-wherever-I-feel-like approach to life.
You are literally driving around children. Actual small humans. The stakes could not be higher, and yet the behaviour suggests everyone has collectively decided the Highway Code is just a fun suggestion.
It’s not that I expect perfection. I expect awareness. I expect basic competence. I expect you not to abandon your vehicle diagonally across a road because you “just need to pop in for two seconds”.
Two seconds is never two seconds.
We all know this.
And when you nearly cause an accident outside a school and then look confused about why other drivers are reacting? That’s not confusion. That’s audacity.
The Parking Situation That Has Created A WhatsApp Alliance
And then there is parking.
Specifically, her parking.
We live on a tight street. Space is precious. If people park like rational adults, we can fit three cars next to my neighbour’s house. Three. That is the silent, agreed, civilised arrangement.
My car is what I call a soccer mum car. Hers is what I call a male executive car. Both fairly large. Both manageable. We’ve learned how to park properly because we have to.
Enter the woman with the Matchbox car.
Tiny car. Could fit in my boot with space left over for a full weekly shop from Lidl. And yet somehow she manages to take up the space of two full-size vehicles every single time.
We’ve spoken to her. Politely. Multiple times.
Her reasoning?
She’s scared of being blocked in.
Meanwhile, my neighbour and I, with much larger cars, have perfected the art of getting out of impossible spaces using millimetre movements and sheer spite. But does this reassure her? No. She continues to park like she’s marking territory.
So now my neighbour and I have a WhatsApp chat purely dedicated to bad parking updates.
“Have you seen how she’s parked today?”
“Is that new car visiting you, or shall I start drafting my complaint?”
“Please tell me it’s not her again before I lose my mind.”
People who visit us know about my parking rage. They know better than to park stupidly outside my house. They value their safety.
Bonus Section: I’d Like A Word With…
While I’m here, I’d like a quiet but extremely firm word with the person who decided LED headlights on modern cars were a good idea.
Especially on the taller vehicles.
Especially when they’re directly behind you.
Especially when you’re just trying to get home without needing a lie-down in the bath afterwards.
Why does your car have the lighting power of a small football stadium?
Why am I suddenly seeing the light?
Why am I half-expecting Jennifer Love Hewitt to appear in my rear-view mirror and gently tell me it’s okay to cross over?
This is not a spooky TV show.
This is the M53.
People’s lives and eyesight are at stake here.
It is not “bright”.
It is not “safer”.
It is retinal violence.
So, to the designer who signed this off.
To the executive who approved it.
To the committee that sat around a table and said yes, let’s absolutely blind everyone for the sake of aesthetics.
I hope your pillow is always warm.
I hope your toast is always burnt on one side and cold on the other.
I hope your tea is perpetually too hot to drink but somehow also disappointing.
I hope every time you get comfortable, your bladder suddenly has urgent opinions.
Nothing catastrophic.
Just… lifelong mild inconvenience.
If you’ve made it this far and feel offended, I gently suggest a refresher driving lesson.
If you’re nodding along, welcome. You are my people.
If you are the person doing these things… stay off the roads. You’ve been warned.
