I had some work done on the car the other day. Because I drive cars and write about them for a living people seem to think that I'll know anything about them, but that's simply not the case. 'This car runs on fairy dust' seems about as plausible as any other explanation of the internal combustion engine that my teeny brain can take in. So obviously I can't mention my profession in any form.

In so many ways I'm perfectly secure in my masculinity – which is probably why I feel comfortable enough writing a blog post that lays bare my utter mechanical ineptitude – but I'm greatly intimidated by a middle aged man in an oil-stained onesie who sputters forth a language I'm supposed to understand and am apparently deficient for being baffled by.

Which is all to explain why I took my electric Hyundai in to get its wheels rebalanced (they were all pointing in different directions, I'm told. Didn’t really have a problem with it, let them live their truth) and ended up paying for two front tyres on a Ford Fiesta.

Did I go in and challenge the four men standing menacingly behind the counter? I did not. It seemed more or less what I expected to pay, and to be honest I hope that whoever got their tyres paid for had a lovely day. And that I didn't blunder into a scam. As far as I can tell the wheels are all pointing in the same direction now.