I always need to be liked; the opposite is too difficult to bear. All the best therapists say this way of thinking is seriously suboptimal, but there you go. This feeling is so ingrained that I even take it on the road with me, literally. I am the most accommodating driver ever. I am always letting people in with a cheery wave, often to the annoyance of my passengers and doubtless the motorists stuck behind me. A true saint among drivers.
I loved driving lorries for my dad’s scaffold company, many moons ago. The code of pleasantries between lorry drivers is a wonderful thing and I wanted as much of it as possible. When overtaking another lorry, the driver would flash you in when it was safe to move back into the lane. I would then flash my hazard lights to convey my gratitude for their assistance. Naturally, I would provide the same service when I was being overtaken. Sweet.
One day, a rigger called Colin in my passenger seat lost it with me as I exchanged flashes with another trucker: “We’re never gonna fookin’ get there at this rate,” he yelled. I sped up and, as we overtook another lorry, Colin looked over at its driver and said: “Get your flasher ready, mate; you’ll have a new friend in a minute.”
This has all come back to me because this week I have felt decidedly unloved on the road. Wanting to try out a hybrid electric car, I have borrowed one from a mate. It happens to be a big, flash, white BMW X5; a Chelsea tractor affair.
A regular route of mine involves coming out of a tunnel and immediately crossing a lane of traffic to make a left turn. This requires the cooperation of drivers in the left lane. In my old saloon or, even better, my partner’s electric car, this is rarely a problem. This week, however, in the white monster, nobody is playing ball. They won’t let me in; they don’t like me.
I have written: “I’m only borrowing this,” in the dirt on the back, but it has changed nothing. SUVs are not my thing anyway, but, even if I were given one for free, I could not drive it. I need to be loved at all times, even in the slow lane of the A40.
Adrian Chiles is a Guardian columnist
