IS it me or is everyone in England totally incapable of grasping the fairly simple, straightforward concept of driving on the motorway?

I mean, honestly, how difficult is it, really? I know how to do it and I am a woman for God's sake. The sex traditionally labelled as clueless when it comes to mastering any motoring know how.

Those that cannot so much as change a spare wheel or check the oil and water in the engine periodically.

Now, I must admit, I'm no Kevin Webster when it comes to maintenance -- and I have been known to drive around with neither of the aforementioned oil and water in my own particular engine, if you really want to know -- but I can drive on the motorway, thank you very much.

It's not hard either. From where I'm standing, or sitting behind the wheel to be precise, there are two, three or maybe -- shock, horror -- sometimes a whole four lanes to go at. Tops.

And I wouldn't mind but they're generally straight roads, the junctions all face the same way and everyone is travelling in the same direction too. I mean, how hard can it be?

As far as I know -- and feel free to correct me if I am wrong -- the first lane on the left is for driving in. Any speed up to 70mph is fine, proceed at your leisure in a forward motion, thank you.

So far, so good, I think you'll agree.

Now it gets a bit more complicated. Or so it would seem, judging by the collective driving ability of Britain. But why? Moving to your right and occupying any additional lanes is reserved for the purpose of overtaking anyone who is going slower than you and generally in the way in the lane to your left.

You pull out. You drive past. You pull back in, Voila! Only the last manoeuvre does seem to be a problem. It's the pulling back in people don't seem to fully understand. You know, keeping to the left, as opposed to continuing to tootle along in the outside lane of a motorway, whether there is anyone in the other, inside lanes or not.

And yes, I mean you. Singing away like a woman in Police Academy attempting an advanced driving course.

Dum-de-dum, da-de-da, here I am, tapping away happily to George Michael on my dashboard and I don't care who's behind me I'm afraid. In fact, I don't even know if there is anyone behind me. I'm just enjoying a leisurely drive through Lancashire in the rush hour.

Well, so sorry, but this is a motorway, love. It's what the Americans called an express road. It is not, and I stress not, some country backwater where you can potter along in your dungarees in a clapped out pick-up truck, chewing a piece of straw and talking to your dog in the front seat.

You see, I need to get to where I'm going, if you don't mind. And if you don't move, I'm going to be forced to break motorway law, occupy the vacant inside lane and zoom past you while simultaneously shouting through the window.

Honestly. You wonder why people get consumed by road rage. Well, I'll tell you. It's because other people do not understand the rules of the road.

I mean, does the country have a driving test or did I just dream about having to do an emergency stop as two mini-roundabouts sprung from nowhere during Blackburn's 1990s civil engineering boom?

In fact, hasn't the country just introduced a harder, more stringent test that involves a written exam? Well, I'm sorry but I find that very difficult to believe.

Perhaps the questions are too easy. Perhaps the examiners now test people on whether they can change gear and the radio at the same time instead of the traditional three point turn -- because people seem to be very adept at that, let me tell you.

Shame they can't master a couple of other things too.

Anyway, see you next week, if I manage to get here that is.