Driving Miss Stevie

A woman was banned from driving yesterday after driving along a motorway at speeds of less than ten miles an hour. And rightly so. Stephanie Cole (not the actress) from Bristol told officers she had no confidence on the motorway. "It just felt awful. I didn't know what to do. I panicked and turned to jelly inside."

Perhaps the one thing she shouldn’t have done is slow the half-ton of metal she was in direct control of down to a walking speed on a busy carriageway. For anyone looking for a way to reduce their anxiety, it’s probably not the best course of action. I’m not surprised she doesn’t like motorway driving if Eddie Stobart’s boys are hurtling past at more than six times her average speed. I’d shit meself.

“I really didn't want to go on the motorway,” Mrs Cole continued, “but I desperately had to go to Staples for an ink cartridge.” I know that desperation Mrs Cole. Ink to me is like the very elixir of life itself. God knows what sort of situation she’d get herself into if she had to courier a heart for a crucial transplant or escape pyroclastic flow from a nearby volcano. She might have ground to a halt altogether.

Actually, Mrs Cole and I have something in common as I too am incapable of breaking the speed limit. This is not as a result of jelly-like insides, but because the Great British constabulary have seen fit to slap points on my licence for thee separate transgressions taking my tally to nine. Three more and I’m banned.

Adhering to the speed limit is actually not that difficult and it turns every motoring experience, motorways included, into a pleasant country drive. In fact, the only stress is generated by the rear view mirror which often shows a lengthy queue of irate motorists being held up by my leisurely pootling. I’m considering having a sign made to hang on the back of the car along the lines of “I’m not a twat, I’m just on nine points.”, or maybe “I’m not Stephanie Cole (not the actress), honest…”