My car thinks it's more intelligent than me, which is galling

I drive a German car with an attitude problem. It’s annoyingly smooth, purring along the roads like a panther, adjusting its own temperature, turning on headlights as it sees fit, and telling me via a small screen on the dashboard when it feels the need for a service or a screen-wash refill. I take no notice. I really can’t be dictated to by a machine, and a German one at that. It so often gets it wrong: place an orange or a Bounty bar on the passenger seat and it mistakes it for a person, beeping incessantly for the seat belt to be fastened. What nonsense. My car thinks it is more intelligent than me, which is galling.

Nevertheless we've learned to live together. I ignore its silly, petulant demands and it gets me to my destination safely, but with bad grace. Driving along enclosed in its opulent, well-behaved interior is like being on a date with Brian Paddick - slick, comfortable, good-looking in a provincial sort of way, but you can't wait to escape.

So, last Saturday, after my show, the dog and I were driving down the A2 to Kent when up pops the screen, displaying in urgent red letters the meaningless words: "Alternator malfunction! Visit nearest workshop!" I took this to be the usual Germanic impertinence and ignored it. It was cold and dark and pouring with rain, and the boyfriend was waiting for me at our country cottage, freshly bathed and decoratively arranged in front of a roaring fire, wearing pink boxer shorts. Whatever an alternator was, it could bog off. There would be no workshop visits while I was at the wheel.

Five minutes later the radio turned itself off, which was odd. Then I noticed the windscreen was misting up. I pressed the appropriate buttons but the demister was playing silly buggers. I couldn't see a thing. Frantic, I tried to open the window but that didn't work either. Then my windscreen wipers gave up the ghost and my headlights died. My efficient, German dream machine was turning into Amy Winehouse on a messy night out. I turned my hazard lights on and moved blindly on to what I hoped was the hard shoulder. Miraculously, through the last square inch of visibility, I saw an exit sign and managed to pull into a side road just as the engine gave a Boris Johnson-like splutter and died.

Worse was to come. I opened the door and peered out. Oh, the horror. I appeared to be parked outside a bungalow with mock leaded windows. I was in Bexley, in deepest south-east London.

I immediately realised the gravity of my situation. Obviously the moment I stepped out of my car I would be stabbed. No doubt about that. I locked myself in and called the RAC. They understood the urgency of my predicament, particularly when I mentioned the freshly exfoliated boyfriend waiting by the log fire. Within half an hour a reassuring flashing light pulled up behind me.

Stuart was my saviour's name. I have to hand it to heterosexuals, they have their uses. He stood there in the rain without a thought for his hair, producing jump leads and spanners from his manly tool bag. He even knew how to open the bonnet of my car - something that's had me foxed since I got it five years ago. Traumatised as we were, Valerie and I managed to transfer ourselves to the comfort of his toasty warm truck. It soon became clear that no amount of prodding would revive my silly car. Whatever an alternator was, I simply couldn't manage without one.

"It's going to be a tow job," said Stuart, gravely. My lips trembled but I nodded compliantly. "Whatever you say, Stuart." "I'll get some ropes," he added.

A lot of grunting by the roadside ensued. Quite normal for Bexley, I suspect. As we made our slow, undignified way to Kent, I sent the boyfriend a text.

"Stuart may come in for a cup of tea and a chocolate finger. You'd better put some trousers on."

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