Today I was having a lovely morning. I woke up to the sound of rain, fixed myself a cup of tea and was generally just taking it easy. I was sitting there at one point, having just finished a healthy breakfast while listening to a podcast, thinking that I was relaxed.

Too relaxed.

And then it hit me, like a sack of premium potting mix to the face. I had misread my diary. I was supposed to start work two-a-half-hours earlier than I thought I did.

So, rather than leisurely strolling down to the bus stop and maybe having a wander about in the park before swanning into work ten minutes early with a chai in hand, I had to haul some serious flat-bottomed arse.

I did not muck around. I power brushed my teeth. I threw on whatever clean, vaguely professional clothing I could find. I mean, I had a full cup of tea that I hadn’t even sipped yet and left it – nay, abandoned it – it on my dresser. It was a tense time.

I ordered myself an Uber and hoped that ride sharing would be the answer to my self-inflicted problem.

But Uber drivers never seem to have the same panicked sense of urgency I want them to have.

I mean, it’s not that I want them to slow down, open the door and shout “I’m not coming to a complete stop so you gotta run and juuuuuump” at pickups, but I would like a little bit of a “follow that car” kind of vibe.

I mean, the ones I’ve had lately take corners at the recommend second gear. They keep a safe distance between cars. They approach traffic lights expecting to have to stop.

And, sure, that makes them safe drivers. I love safety. Safety is my favourite. But I just get ancy when people don’t have the same sense of urgency as I do.

I also tend to be a bit of a backseat driver, which is actually a nightmare I repeatedly have. I’m literally sitting in the backseat, trying to operate a moving automobile. It’s essentially that scene from Mr Bean where he’s trying to take an armchair home in his tiny car and ends up rigging up a shonky system that allows him to drive from the chair, which has been strapped to his roof. It’s so fucking stressful and terrifies me. It’s also super unnecessary. I already know I’m a control freak who is unable to control her own life. I’m aware. I don’t need an anxiety-inducing dream to tell me that.

Anyway. What I mean to say is that this overwhelming craving for control and flurry of urgency fluttering in my chest makes me an uncomfortable passenger.

Like today, for example, I’d mentioned my dilemma to the driver who made the appropriate “that’s awkward for you, you silly bloody sausage” throat noise people make when they want to politely acknowledge your discomfort but communicate that you’re the person at fault. He knew what a hurry I was in. And that super 90s Tina Cousins song Pray was on the radio, for a reason I can’t quite explain. That preachy dance floor belter is the perfect chase song. The chorus is so intense. I mean, it’s electric gospel, that’s a powerful fucker of a stout.

I was in a hurry. The soundtrack was on point. The sky was grey and dramatic. How could you not get swept up in all that?

There should have been pigeons scattering and people diving into fountains to clear our path.

But this bloke was in classic Sunday morning drive mode, abiding by all the road rules like a maniac.

I mean, call me a melodramatic, self-obsessed millennial, but I was stunned that a complete stranger wasn’t willing to put life, limb and license on the line to get me to work three-and-a-half minutes faster by taking a few uncalculated risks.

Unbelievable.