Driven to distraction by bells and whistles

MY car is pretty basic. Its absence of bells and whistles does not perturb me for, at the rate car parts break, the bells and whistles would bankrupt me.

The nearest I have to gadgets is a thing that makes the steering “City” or... well it doesn’t actually say, “not City” I suppose, and there’s a built-in Bluetooth which does not understand 70pc of what I say, so I spend way too much time roaring in the general direction of the mirror where the microphone is. I must look like an utter nutjob. Call Tony. “Call Maureen now?” No. “Command not recognised”. NO. “Please repeat, or say Cancel”. Cancel. “Command not recognised.” Cancel. CANCEL. And the wagon is always so bleeding jaunty when she is wilfully misunderstanding me.

My brother’s car however has loads of bells and whistles, some of which sound frankly scary. It has some radar which senses lane markings and if you change lane without indicating, it corrects the steering wheel. Cruise control scares me, if the steering wheel moved of its own accord I’d burst into tears and plead allegiance to the car god.

My brother said he was rather enjoying this hightech, high-spec malarkey, even when his car ordered him to put his hands back on the steering wheel. But then he was driving to work one day, and the car crossed a line —an emotional line.

It was first thing in the morning, he was all spruced up for the day. The car, however, apparently took one look at him and started shouting “Caution! Driver fatigue. Caution! Driver fatigue.” A love affair ended. “It’s all very well the fecker policing my driving, but telling me I look like shit is bang out of order!”