I have never been able to develop an affinity for cars, no matter how hard I try. The emotional bond that men have with them is completely absent in me. I regard the car not as another human being but as the ‘thing’ that transports me from point A to point B. Period.

I lack the skill of discernment when it comes to cars or for anything that sits attached to four wheels for that matter. As far as I am concerned, each and every one of them has the same set of four whirl-able wheels, two bright lights right in front, two red ones right at the back, four entrances and no maintenance. They are, therefore, all one and the same. The only factor that differentiates them, one from the other is the colour, which is something that I can relate to because colours are one of my absolutely favourite things.

Because of that, it has become quite characteristic of me to walk willfully up to a car that is not mine and attempt to embark it simply because it is of a similar colour to mine. And not surprisingly, I have also at other times attempted to break into someone else’s car for the same obvious reasons. In one instance, the owner arrived and seeing that we were all women (my friends and I all suffer from carbungles) he asked politely what our intentions were of forcing the lock. His lock, in particular. We babbled all at the same time, and in an instant, the true owner realised to his disgust, which, by the way, was spelt correctly on his forehead, what we were all suffering from. We backed off and whimpered, hurt and disorientated.

So the day when a complete stranger walked up to our open car door, smilingly and laughingly sank into the back seat while embracing a bundle of groceries on her lap was one of the happiest days of my life. She sat comfortably for a good few seconds and then started to blink at an unprecedented speed. My husband, children and I stared benignly back at her not unlike the cows on my son’s t-shirt. It was not until the light of revelation dawned upon her that she began to fluster and hurriedly disembarked and stumbled over to her employer’s car nearby. Now that is what I call a soul mate. I soul completely relate to her.

I have also come to realise that cars have another very important purpose in life and I can vouch with absolute certainty that my daughter would wholeheartedly agree with me.

For some, cars are not really cars in the sense of being cars, if you know what I mean. For men, it is a Form, an Idea, the Platonic perfection of their unnecessary infatuation. Cars are made to look good, shapely and are blessed with that effervescent glow that men are smitten and would woo them, caress them, fall in love with them and treat them with such useless, idealistic tenderness as the result of which, we women, being the pragmatic green-eyed monsters that we are, come to regard cars as a substance for abuse.

Being woman, I believe that cars were made, unwittingly, as a panacea for the demented warrior women of the twenty-first century. In order to get from point A to point B, the highway is the holy war path, the car engine the steed and the horn, the jousting stick. And the car, the whole car and nothing but the car? It is thine armour.

What better armour than thy car, me ladies. Thou art damsels within their mighty embrace. Tis why after a war weary day when the fair maiden cometh home she dismounts and leaves her armour safely clamped outside for it to recuperate from the day’s battle and to prepare for the next.

As a mark of all her heroine attempts at bravery, my daughter’s car scathingly shows for it. Two long scratches that stretches to infinity on the left side, a whimpering dent in the left corner of her back bumper, a rebellious hollow on her right front door and an amputated wing mirror on the driver’s side. All mustered in good time and speed and I appallingly applaud her.

It is with much reluctance then that I reveal to all men, husbands, fathers and sons alike that in all our girlish attempts at feminising the car with cuddly toys, dainty tissue box covers and fluffy cushions, those acts are merely beguiling ways to disguise the dark, demented truth of the inner workings of the warring women at their height of combativeness.

So beware you small minded road bullies and caressing car adulators out there. We care not for what the car looks like nor for which is ours but for what it is capable of. Period.