Yesterday I was in the middle lane of the M1 – the 90mph lane, the left lane being for pensioners and women driving at no more than 70mph, the right lane for men only, driving at no more than 120 mph – in a major traffic jam, on a very gentle upwards incline. I was already wound up after listening to Emma Barnett and Clare Balding on Woman Sour wittering on endlessly about a female jocket having won the Grand National two days previously, seemingly the most important thing to have ever happened in the history of sport.
We came to another halt, and the large Ford SUV in front of me started slowly reversing towards me. My immediate assumption was that the driver – who I assumed was a woman – was adjusting her make-up in the mirror, or some other silly thing had distracted her. I honked my car horn continuously but several seconds later the car banged into mine.
Not long afterwards a gap appeared on my right so I was able to pull level with the car’s driver. Sure enough, the driver was a woman. I honked my car horn again for maybe 20 seconds but the woman fixed her gaze straight ahead in a startling (if utterly predictable) illustration of women’s lack of moral agency.
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