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The conundrum of the chicken and the roundabout

By Rachel Berger
October 3, 2003

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I know I'm special because people stop doing whatever they happen to be doing and watch me when I'm trying to parallel park. When there's someone waiting to drive into the car space that I'm departing, I forget how to reverse and my car transforms into a shopping trolley with a mind of its own. The wheels seem no longer connected to the steering mechanism, nor does the motor pay any attention to the principles of engineering. I manoeuvre to avoid collision, but the tyres laugh at me and seek out new targets.

Is it that I'm being observed? I thrust forward and back to avoid denting the hairy, four-wheel drive parked diagonally across the space to my right. My car stalls. In a random act of stupidity, I start the engine again over-enthusiastically, press the accelerator and reverse into a Chapel Street design-muffin zooming by on an iridescent blue Vespa. Which breakfast cereal pack did this piece of flapdoodle fall out of? Do I respond to it like a pedestrian or a vehicle? Does it have right of way at a roundabout?

As a matter of fact, who does have right of way at a roundabout - the chicken? Finally, after biting my tongue - and the leg of the woman straddling the Vespa - I drive away, as stated in the police report, in a northerly direction.

Nothing confronts me more with the reptilian part of my brain than traffic and traffic rules. Negotiating my way through traffic requires the same skills of compromise and tolerance as any relationship in a confined space with no exits. It makes me want to throw up. I have no control over other drivers' behaviour.

If the driver ahead of me indicates that she's turning right, but low estrogen levels and her dead granny's voice in her head command that she turns left, what can I do? Brake abruptly, lock my tyres, go into a rear-end skid and ram right up her backside.

There ya go, I'm more pumped than a Bulgarian weight-lifter, and I haven't had breakfast yet. Seize the day - but make sure you've got comprehensive insurance cover!

There is that other species of driver, who drives so slowly that it crosses my mind that he may have dropped dead at the wheel several days back, but no one's noticed. I check my mirror, look to my right and left, flick my blinker, look again and try to overtake. But it's an impossible task because this driver is committing the second most irritating road violation - driving in the middle of the road! And, because his hat is over his ears or he's dead (I can't tell which), he doesn't respond to my fretting car horn.

The driver instruction manuals tell us to trust no one and to expect the unexpected. I understand that - I'm a comedian! The unexpected is my workplace, and trust is an occupational health and safety problem.

Learning to navigate my way through the mind games that other drivers might indulge in requires tolerance and plenty of complex carbohydrates. But some of the following observations, gleaned from my years of keeping company with clairvoyants and insurance agents, may shed light on and help prevent potential hazardous encounters.

Watch out for any car that has a small scented pine-tree made of cardboard hanging from the rear-view mirror; this will surely be a taxi. Don't approach this car or even think about opening any of its doors. These vehicles are driven by fiendish creatures who spend hours sitting and sweating on vinyl seats in a pair of synthetic trousers, longing for an opportunity to blast you with their stale odours.

Back away from all vehicles that have better stereo systems than most of us would have at home. You'll know these cars are approaching from at least five kilometres away because that's when your genitals will start throbbing unwillingly to the music of Limp Bizkit. Be afraid of the car that's crammed with "must-have" accessories and looks smarter than an Italian suit. This driver will spin through roundabouts and weave along as many lanes as possible with no hands on the steering wheel; one hand is gripping the mobile phone they're blabbering into and the other hand is busy!

Finally, there is that breed of driver whose car is a collection of petty aggravations on wheels. They're plastered with bumper stickers: "If you can read this, you're too damn close" or that old favourite, "bad girl". There's usually a soft toy lying in the back window with a bobbing head and they've had their blinker on for two kilometres without making a turn.

My theory is that these drivers exist in another world simultaneously alongside our own, but in a prehistoric era.

