It is time to turn away from failure and look for inspiration. I am fortunate in not having a radio in my car. I bought it second-hand from a man who examined hairdressers. A very successful business, so much so that he had a team of examiners who drove around the country testing hapless hirsute cutters, dyers and permers. He bought his ‘girls’ cars without radios explaining it was cheaper and safer. I bought one such car, a little maroon VW Polo that has now been my faithful companion for many years and over 100,000 miles.

My examiner saved money but whether he was right about safety I cannot say. I do know that my time in the car is for meditation and deep analysis, and rarely concerns itself much about the mechanics of driving. At times I reach my journey’s end only to pause and wonder how I managed to get there at all, as I have very little memory of the process of changing gears, steering, negotiating bends, traffic lights and other vehicles. Odd moments sometimes stick in my memory; the deer that chased alongside my car for about 200 metres, so close that I could see her wild eyes full of fear. Or the road rager who yelled ‘you fat **** at me. It wasn’t the expletive that worried me, but me, fat. Yes, that hurt, but then the truth usually does. Whatever, I must be doing something right, no accidents so far but then I’m probably the silly sod that everyone is waving at as they roar past.

Recently I was bumbling along the motorways in my own little world, musing on my nation’s collective failure when I suddenly became aware of my surroundings. It was frightening for I was in the five-lane carriageway of London’s North Circular Road approaching the junction with the M11. Keeping in the centre lane I plunged on downhill towards the M11 exit, huge lorries (trucks) to the left and right of me. At the narrow mouth of the M11 I suddenly became aware of a 30 mph sign, wedded closely to that dreadful speed camera logo. That was perturbing as the North Circular limit is 50 mph, a speed I was hovering around and totally unable to slow down sufficiently to avoid the double flash of the camera and the huge illuminated sign that seemed to be saying, ‘smile please and sign the cheque here’ as I swept past. There are those that will regard that as one of the hazards of life but I’m a strange beast, one that tries not to exceed speed limits. That flashing camera worried me for days. So much so I went back to the scene of my ‘crime’ to analyse the scene and prepare my defence.

It came as a surprise to find that in the 300 (odd) metres approaching the place where the North Circular became the M11, the North Circular and some other road, there were no less that 48 road signs. Driving along without the lorries I could see these signs clearly. First came a 50 mph, followed by a 30 mph sign – that was a pattern that repeated itself several times before reaching the M11. That was not all, there were signs for all sorts of other reasons, and so the meaning of the individual signs became lost.

All very confusing but I took an optimistic perspective and searched my memory. The last time I had really looked at the road and its attendant furniture it had all been fairly boring. Perhaps a white line down the middle of the road, the occasional Stop sign and in the countryside crossroads had quaint little wooden signposts pointing the way to adjacent villages such as Little Madding and Much Roughage.

It struck me that among the greatest entrepreneurs this country has produced must be included those fine fellows who produce roadside furniture. That’s a fine expression, one that makes the council officials who place orders for all this equipment feel safe and secure. Our entrepreneur, let’s call him Paddy for convenience, has had his head screwed on. He realised that the motor vehicle is a lethal weapon, and so should be encouraged to go even faster and further than could ever be conceived. As a child, living in Colchester, I remember making the journey to Nottingham with my parents, by car. It took all day, with stops beside farm gates feeding cows portions of cheese and pickle sandwiches, while I woofed down the apple pie. Today I can drive to Manchester or Bristol and back, in one day, just for a meeting. That’s a clear sign of madness, and another story.

Paddy loved transport as it brought extra income. He stood beside the Automobile Association nodding sagely whilst they harangued the government about the rights of motorists. He commiserated with emergency doctors and distraught relatives whose sons, daughters, husbands wives and cats had all suffered from the infernal combustion engine. He made suggestions to local council road engineers, helping them to make our roads safer for us all.

He never suggested that we should reduce the acceleration speed of vehicles or fit them with computer controlled devices that would prevent them colliding with other objects, or from exceeding the speed limits. Such suggestions would be a serious intrusion upon human rights, and would not produce profits.

Consider how far we have come since the weary peasant tramped home along a beaten earth track after a long day in the fields. My great-grandfather had a steamroller, with his house on the back. He left his home in Bramford, near Ipswich to steam slowly through the byways of East Anglia laying tarmacadam roads over these ancient bridleways. He was away for weeks at a time, which is yet another reason why there are not that many Lockwood’s about today. These new roads allowed the motor car access to the countryside, opening up trade routes that led to the globalisation we have now. Today we cannot eat a meal using ingredients that have travelled less than 1,000 miles. Look at your plate (consider that as well) this evening and muse upon that lamb chop from New Zealand, potatoes from Spain, beans from Kenya (for goodness sake aren’t they short of food there?), apples from California, flour from Canada, and who knows where the custard came from originally.

None of that was Paddy’s concern. As traffic grew in numbers he suggested that a white line down the middle of the road would remind drivers that we drive on the left. Unlike the rest of the world who use the right, leaving their right arms free to cuddle girlfriends, use mobile phones, open cans of drink and turn over the pages of newspapers and magazines. Our masters never took any of these important considerations into account; we went the way of ships, keeping to the left. Having painted white lines down the middle of all our roads Paddy needed to expand his business. Road signs had always been made locally, lovely wooden posts that pointed the way helped by milestones; great blocks of stone at regular intervals (every mile?) that told the traveller they were 10 miles from Lower Beeting and 4 miles from Rotten End.

Paddy considered these ancient methods with disdain. They were totally unsuitable for the motorist, who wanted good clear signs facing the right way that could be read easily. One sign would not be enough as the driver’s attention span was very limited and so there is now a sign to say that Rotten End is ahead, then another to say we are approaching Rotten End, then another telling us that we are now in Rotten End. Splendid stuff, we all knew we were there, and whizzing through the village we crashed into Farmer Jolly who had always regarded the track leading from his farm as the major road in the village, whereas you, as a passing traveller, had assumed a different course more appropriate. The STOP sign was born, together with associated signs warning of hazards ahead, junction in five miles, slow down in 750 yards, get ready to slow down now and many more. Paddy was considering whether to buy a new Vauxhall or a Ford.

Health and Safety came next. You may hear more about H&S as it is the scourge of our times. Worse than politicians, who are stupid and largely inconsequential unless they take us into a war; worse than accountants, who may be miserly accurate but do have a point. H&S (I can hardly bear to write the words in full) has destroyed most of the fun in our lives. Not so Paddy, he loved the arrival of H&S. It started fairly simply with the increasing numbers of cars. Very few houses had garages, so cars spent most of the time on the roads causing congestion. Mr Council Official (CO; of whom there will be much more) mused upon this knowing that congestion caused accidents, and his job was to protect the public. It was a problem, particularly in towns until Paddy suggested he paint yellow lines in the gutter, and anyone who parked on those lines could be fined. CO loved the idea, and was able to promise his councillors they would be able to take a penny off the rates from the income accrued from fines. Congestion ceased to be a problem.

Paddy got painting, single lines were followed by doubles, then he suggested shorter lines on the pavement to indicate loading and unloading restrictions, waiting times, cab ranks, disabled parking bays, spaces for use by councillors only – all with associated little signs fixed in appropriate places, usually facing the road so that the hapless motorist would either have to step into the traffic to see the sign or, better still, not see them at all, get caught and have to pay a fine. Paddy was now looking at a Rover or perhaps he would be more sporty in a Jaguar.

Very quickly our towns became a confusing jumble of signs, catching out the unwary traveller who it was assumed would be reading every sign but missing every traffic warden, who would suddenly appear to slap ticket on screen. The signs replaced trees and flowers, cars pushed aside horses, and towns became rather intimidating. Paddy decided it was time to move to the country again. The cat’s eye was a godsend. More lines, and a lovely bit of kit to stick in the middle of the road; it was a real money-spinner and so socially acceptable. Drunks could straddle the blinking eye as they drove home and goods vehicle manufacturers realised that their puny lorries could be so much larger. They moved from 2-3 tons that crawled, to 40 tonnes that snarled and blared dominance all over our land. Put a big metal box on the back and globalisation was born.

Paddy moved on; adding lines on either side of the road to the double lines that now occupied the centre ground. Approaches to villages demanded anti-skid surfaces preferably in bright red tarmac, with funny little pavements sticking out into the carriageway ready to puncture the tyres of any motorist who was not concentrating (perish the thought). Today you cannot travel 100 metres in our fair land without coming across a ROAD SIGN of some sort, or a line painted on the tarmac beneath your feet (or tyres).

Our transport networks are now dominated by the infernal combustion engine that uses a fossil fuel that we have no right to consume and can never replace. Surely we should not be burning oil? We do not have that right. Future generations will look upon us as complete fools. “The ‘Travellers’ were dumbclucks,” they will say, “Why didn’t they realise that oil contained the elixir of eternal life?”

Next time you reach for your car keys ask if your journey is really necessary. Move your home closer to your job, learn to love your immediate surroundings, use the Internet to communicate and remember Paddy. He now uses a helicopter and his private plane to get around; the roads are far too crowded and dangerous.