Room 101 ( Part 1)

I am in a crotchety mood because

a) apart from the Jim Tavare gig on Monday night ( which was the last comedy night until September) the week has been a constant stream of work and meetings, all unnecessarily burdensome, completely dull and pointlessly protracted

b) I have finally got my new coffee machine working and am completely wired on caffeine so haven't slept much for the last few days

c) I'm hormonal. I'm a woman. It's my job. What the f*** do you want to make of it?

It didn't help that I got stuck behind a car-load of shoppers in the multi-storey this morning. Shoppers should be banned from car parks during the week, or at least limited to the hours of 11 and 4 when I am unlikely to be wanting access or egress from my parking spot. If and when the deliciously grumpy Paul Merton invites me to take tea with him on a stage set somewhere in North West London, I shall have shoppers at the very top of my list of entrants to Room 101.

I appreciate that multi-storey car-park etiquette is not currently included in the driving test. It should be. I suspect it is the biggest cause of road rage amongst otherwise mild office workers in the country. I frequently trail behind a Nissan Micra trying unsuccessfully to squeeze into every possible parking space from Level 3 ( the first level not to comprise almost completely of dedicated parking spaces) upwards. They make at least 15 manoeuvres before realising that they will be unable to exit the vehicle even in the unlikely event that they manage to wedge it into the space available. I usually manage to quell the increasing impulse to drum my fingers on the steering wheel, scream like a fish-wife, or drag them from the driver's seat and park the tinny, tiny thing myself. Anger and impatience are not productive emotions with which to commence the day and a few more seconds won't make a huge difference in the big scheme of things. I have even been known to smile benignly at the most pathetic of parrallel parkers.

This morning I found myself stuck in the familiar trap as a car, full of young people being driven by what appeared to be their grandad, inched tortuously up the ramps, braking randomly and vainly searching for vacant spots, particularly near the lifts. I've parked in the same place for 10 years. I know that if they just drive straight up to the top floor, there will be plenty of spaces, cracking views over the river and the perfect excuse to take the lift on the way home later. I fought back the urge to lean out of my window and tell them this. Eventually they found a spot that even Reginald Molesworthy could have negotiated and I relaxed back in my seat, relieved that my minor misery was about to be brought to an end.

Instead of pulling swiftly into the space, allowing myself and the half dozen other drivers backing up behind me to pass, the car just idled as one by one, the scruffy scrotes climbed slowly out, all falling down jeans and cropped tops. It was a 3-door. I breathed a sigh of relief as the last one climbed out and then watched in disbelief as she leaned back into the car and started to drink from a large bottle of water, oblivious to the rising hatred amassing behind her. I bit my lip, and timed them. 6 minutes. 6 frigging minutes, I'd been following them and now she was showing no signs of hurrying out of the way.

I flipped. I honked. I wound my window down and I delivered a vile and pleasingly articulate torrent of abuse that left them in no doubt as to my displeasure. It did the trick. They moved out of my path as a small flurry of applause could be heard from the queue behind me.

It was only as I was expertly reversing into my usual spot on the roof ( one handed, I hadn't braked up the last couple of ramps either) that it occurred to me that those people might have been my first clients of the day. I took the stairs two-at-a-time and shut myself in my room until 3 o'clock just in case.