I’m not a particularly great driver. I oversteer at junctions and find myself heading vaguely in the direction of the kerb. I find pulling in on the left and ending up tight and parallel to the kerb virtually impossible. I retune to Smooth Radio 102.2FM in contraflows. Anyone walking down the street I live on in Tooting might notice my battered red Ford Fiesta and think, in fact, that I’m a particularly shit driver: there’s a huge dent in the side, a huge dent in the front, and the passenger door doesn’t really sit in its hole properly. But none of these were my fault, honest, guv. One car rammed into mine while I was sound asleep in my flat, and they didn’t even bother leaving their full details under the windscreen wiper, heartless scum; a lorry driver reversed into it – the front car in a long queue of traffic – and came up with the impenetrable defence: “Basically, mate, and the end of the day, I was reversing.” Tit. And then someone tried to prise open the passenger door like a tin of paint the other night, in order to gain access to, er, some bits of cardboard I’d left on the back seat.

I had another “not my fault” situation last night. Jenny and I are off on holiday at the end of the week, so we had to make a trip up to North London to grab a pile of her stuff. On the way home, on the North Circular, we reached the famed Hanger Lane gyratory system. (Gyratory System would be a great name for a club night, if such things still exist, I dunno, I’m 35.) The scourge of motorists during rush hour, things were a bit quieter at 11.30pm, but that didn’t stop me getting in the wrong lane, and ending up heading for the A40 West, which, in its worst scenario, could mean kipping down for the night in High Wycombe. I signalled to pull out, to my left, but at that moment the lorry behind me – for no apparent reason – put his lights on full beam. I had an eyefull of megawatt lorrylight in my wing and rear-view mirrors, and couldn’t see anything else behind. All this time we’re trundling forward, and I’m inevitably drifting towards bloody Oxford. At the last second he turns his lights back down, and I pull out, but, as I quickly move forward towards the reassuring bosom of Ealing, I note an amber light turning to red in the periphery of my vision. I then see the horrible double flash of the traffic camera. Snapped. Jumping a red light at Hanger Lane gyratory system.

OK, well, it was my fault. I’m hoping that, somehow, the traffic camera will yield up a whole host of mitigating circumstances which will let me off the hook, including the inexcusable behaviour of the lorry driver, who must, I’m afraid, bear the majority of the guilt. But on the way home, I was suddenly aware of all manner of people jumping red lights. “Look!” I screamed at Jenny, “They’re jumping red lights! But do they have 20 years in prison awaiting them? No!” Horrible roadworks on West Hill in Wandsworth meant that, in horribly slow-moving traffic, no-one was paying any attention to the lights whatsoever. I felt like getting out and giving people the benefit of my own experience, as someone who has suffered through ignoring red, and gambling on amber. But they’d only have told me, in colourful language, to get back into my battered car. Within 14 days I await a fine of £60 or more, and between 3 and 6 points on my license. With any luck, there won’t be any film in the camera. Oh, but now I’ve admitted my guilt on the internet. But the CPS don’t read this drivel, surely. Do they?