I don't think I've ever had road rage. Even in my mini-skirted, mini-driving days, I was never a speed merchant. Neither did I hurl snarling insults or shake a clenched fist, or, perish the thought, give a two-fingered salute to other drivers.

On the whole I was a placid, considerate driver, whose main aim was to get to where I was going without mishap or punch-ups at the side of the road.

Not that I would have indulged in punch-ups in those far off days of yore – certainly not while wearing that short a skirt. I think I would merely have fluttered my eye lashes and adopted a helpless female role – though I was never that, either!

I read somewhere that everyone harbours both male and female hormones in their bodies. Men's hormones stay pretty much the same, whereas female's endure more of an imbalance as they get older. Once over the menopause, the testosterone in women tends to come to the fore as the oestrogen goes walkabout. This accounts for the sudden appearance of a moustache and a determination to barge to the front of the queue at the post office – if you have a post office, that is.

The trouble with warmongering hormones is that they can alter a character quite drastically. It's like the Jolly Green Giant suddenly turning into the Incredible Hulk.

Which must be the reason for this docile granny gripping the steering wheel and swearing at the incompetence of other road users. And it's not just road hogs, speed merchants and brainless drogues texting whilst they zoom up the slipway on to a crowded M4 or M5. If the message you need to send is life threatening, pull on to the slipway. If it's making a date and discussing what to wear, keep your phone in your bag and your eyes on the road. Please!

The Highways Authority is also in my sights. Those huge LED signs at the side of the motorway quite often say stupid things like "There are no problems to report". Excuse me? Is there really any need to divert my attention from the road ahead to tell me there are no problems? There certainly will be if you keep distracting me like that.

I have my own take on one particular road safety campaign – another of those that frequently appear on those huge motorway information signs – Think Bike. My take on it is "Think Bike Because They Can't Think For Themselves".

I've seen them snake through the narrowest of gaps, but worse still, I've seen them ride as though there's nobody else on the road.

There I was, waiting at the lights on the motorway roundabout at Tormarton, having just driven up there on the A46 from Bath. I was in the inside left-hand lane aiming to go straight on. A motorcycle was in the outside lane. No problem. That meant he was turning right, didn't it? Well, no. He wanted to go left.

I did not know this until the lights changed and he cut across my path. There must have been all of a quarter of an inch between the front of my car and his thigh. So off he shot down on to the M4 to my left.

Luckily for me the guy behind was on the ball so when my brake lights went on he managed to stop without crashing into the back of me.

It brings to mind a saying about bad drivers: they see a lot of accidents in their rear view mirror. I shouldn't think the motorcyclist, snug in his tight fitting helmet, even noticed there was any other traffic on the road.

Oh, and before any motorcyclist writes accusing me of being biased, you're wrong. This is a girl who used to ride pillion on a Triumph Bonneville and go hurtling along the road to Weston-Super-Mare at about 100mph. Naughty, but I wasn't driving.

I'm appalled by other road users. They're all at fault. No doubt about it. Except me, of course. Must be those male hormones.