Kayt Turner: 'By the time you've held up your hands and checked which is which, you're past the junction'

Published on Thursday 24 June 2010 14:00

A QUICK quiz for you. I know, I know, it's Sunday. You're probably only halfway through your coffee and starting to consider the possibility that shouting for that third bottle of wine last night is proving to be an enormous mistake.

Trust me though, it'll only take a second. Ready? Here we go then. Do you know your left from your right?

Those of you who answered "no" need little reminder from me that, really, that third bottle is generally a mistake. If you were able to answer "yes" instantly, then you are, most likely, a man. If you held up both your hands, looked at them closely, wavered between the two and finally plumped for one being your left and one being your right - and not necessarily the correct way round - then you are most likely female (or a hungover man).

Now, before everyone gets their knickers in a twist, or starts puffing their chest out in an arrogant "see, told you so" stylee, let me just tell you why I've started down this particular route, if you'll forgive the pun. Maps, and the reading thereof. Apparently, men can and women can't. Any fool can tell you that that's completely untrue. We just can't read maps when you're in the car with us. When we're in the car on our own, do you know what we do? We ask for directions.

Science bods maintain that because men were hunters, they developed mental maps based on distance and direction. But because women were gatherers, they would find their way about by landmarks. Which is why women will say things like "turn left at the hairdressers", and men all seem to think they're the bird seat in Kimi Raikkonen's rally car: "in thirty seconds, left, left left..."

Of course, by the time you've held up your hands and checked which one is which, you're past the junction.

Mr Turner and I were the perfect example of this last weekend. We were heading to a family barbecue in St Andrews. It's a road that we've driven down hundreds of times before. But because of the golf, it was recommended that we take a different route, one that would necessitate the road atlas being taken from the glovebox.

We were operating under Mr Turner's "fair division of labour" system. He would drive to the barbecue, I would then refrain from any and all alcoholic beverages and drive back. So, not only was I going to have to get through a family gathering without the benefit of booze, I was also going to be responsible for giving Mr Turner directions. Lucky me, eh?

I always particularly enjoy the sucking of air through his teeth - perfected in his previous incarnation as a tradesman - every time I move the map so that it matches up with the direction we're heading in - a trait which is seemingly peculiar to us ladies and utterly, utterly infuriates him.

And so we leave the barbecue. Given the "equal division of labour", I was behind the wheel. Mr Turner was navigating. Which was going swimmingly until I asked...

"Err. We're heading from St Andrews, yes? We're going towards Falkirk?"

"Yesssss."

"Then why," I asked, waving my (correct, for once) hand in the air, "is the sea on my right hand side?"