I had an extra hour to myself this week, an unexpected treat, lovely. Only it wasn't lovely nor unexpected. I was trapped in my car, sweating up the upholstery. Along with what felt like the entire population of New Zealand. I was stuck in traffic. Again.
Thanks to our collective car lust, lack of jet packs and general human laziness, our roads are painfully constipated with not a prune in sight.
I've tried honking and swearing, but that got me nowhere, and why should it? It's very rude.
I tried closing my eyes and picturing sipping wine cooler by my pool, but I don't own a pool and it's not 1987. (Plus, when I opened my eyes again I was still behind that clunky Honda with those stupid family stickers. I don't care you've got three kids and you play tennis, move!)
Then I thought, hang on a second Jaquie Brown from the telly, what have you got to complain about? Sitting there with all your limbs and a nice padded bottom for comfort.
So I decided to use my time productively and wrote this column in the car.
(Disclaimer - no I didn't, that would be very dangerous. Or did I? No I didn't. But did I? Oh! The Honda's moving ... signing off)