Claire Black: It’s not sensible to be scared of your own car but mine frightens the bejesus out of me

YOU know that feeling you get when you’re behind the wheel of your car, cruising along the open road, your favourite tune blasting from the stereo – it’s freedom, isn’t it? You are master of your own destiny – you can go anywhere, do anything, sing as loudly as you want to Camera Obscura.

Well I don’t.

Whenever I am on the open road all I am aware of is a pressing concern that the wheels may fall off (that is not a metaphor), topped off by a vague feeling of dread that the doors may fly open. There is no singing because the stereo has stopped working.

When people see my car they see a cute little, two-tone, three-speed dream machine rather than the four-wheeled (for now) demon that I know it to be. Think Herbie, but evil.

I know it’s not sensible to be scared of your own car, but knowing this makes no difference to the fact that mine frightens the bejesus out of me. It’s not about power. The engine has all of 999ccs. It’s not about real mechanical faults – it sails through its MOT every year and it’s never even broken down. It’s more subtle than this; it’s psychological. That car is the boss of me. And by boss I mean tyrannical overlord whose raison d’etre is to humiliate and shame me, to provoke anxiety and undermine me.

Oh come, come, you say, be reasonable. What can a car do to provoke such a hysterical reaction?

Sometimes the doors refuse to lock. At other times they refuse to open. Frequently on the garage forecourt I am forced to climb out of the passenger side much to the hilarity of, well, anyone who sees me. And it’s not just the doors. Recently I pulled up outside a posh hotel only for both windows to lower themselves. It was raining. I pushed the switch and one of them went back up. The other one not so much. Actually not at all. Twenty minutes later, presumably aided by the juddering caused by me hitting my head repeatedly on the steering wheel, it went back up entirely of its own accord.

“Just sell it,” some eej... I mean helpful friend said the other day. How can I? Can you imagine what it might do if it gets wind of a For Sale sign coming anywhere near it? I am trapped. Trapped I say.

THE alarm on my digital radio has broken. Actually, it’s the volume control but that means I can’t hear the alarm, which pretty much amounts to the same thing.

Standing in front of a shop display to pick a replacement, I asked what the advantage of internet radio was, since the one with that was only £4 more expensive than the one without.

“Well, it’s good if you like listening to internet radio stations,” I was told helpfully. And then: “But it’s only got one speaker.” Thousands of channels that all sound bad. Is that progress?

SO THE Commie pool will reopen next month. Until I clocked this I’d forgotten how much I love the fact that it’s called the Commie, as though it’s a swimming pool for people who believe that we should all own the means of production. Awash with this sudden wave of excitement I also remembered that in the days before posh hotels boasted about their infinity pools the Commie really was one because it sometimes felt that you might never actually reach the other end. I can’t wait for March 21.