I was driving along the other day when I came to a set of temporary traffic lights. As they turned to green, I drove past the stationary traffic waiting at the other end and raised my hand from the steering wheel to acknowledge those who had let me past.

Suddenly, I realised that no one was acknowledging me back because of course, they weren’t actually giving way to me, they were waiting at a red light. So with an overwhelming and irrational sense of embarrassment, I acted quickly to rectify the situation.

I did this by utilising my thespian skills to pretend that I wasn’t really acknowledging anyone, I was actually tapping my steering wheel to music in my car (despite the fact I was listening to Radio 5).

The problem was, I overcooked it a bit, utilising all the acting ability of an extra in ‘Casualty ‘and, as a result, I clearly saw the people in the last two cars laughing at me.

Of course, they may have been simultaneously laughing at an unfunny DJ on local radio having a discussion about the demise of Spangles, but I was convinced it was me they were getting their pleasure from and as a consequence, my face burned with shame.

How could something some trivial fill me with such shame?

How, I thought, could I feel such embarrassment at something so miniscule, when the Prime Minister of our country has openly admitted, without shame, that she wants to repeal a ban that stops a hundred hounds ripping a fox to bits?

A woman whose love of deluded christianity is driving her towards a righteous Brexit cliff as she repeals a barbaric act whilst singing ‘All creatures great and small’.

A woman who cares not a jot about old folk without resources or assistance as dementia sets in, or mental health patients broken by extreme capitalism blocking up hospital waiting rooms because of funding cuts.

A woman in denial about the debt of GDP rising from 60% to 89% after seven years of austerity to bail out people like her husband. A very, very, rich husband who works alongside aggressive tax avoidance companies, making millions from quantitative easing cash that was supposed to boost the economy after his pals wrecked it in 2008.

Someone said on the radio yesterday that Theresa May’s husband was on the One Show (a fucking dreadful programme if there ever was one) the other night and he proved he is normal by taking the bins out every week.

Bin there done that: The May’s are so normal they put their own bins out

I was unsure where my vote was heading on June the 8th but finding out that Mr May puts his bins out rather than using a slave, wins my vote. In fact, I think he should be put forward for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Okay, food banks and people pissing in their beds in hospital corridors may be on the increase but we are talking about a man who puts his bins out here…all by himself!!!.

So, come guys and girls, let’s give credit where credit is due and vote Conservative, because they are just ordinary folk like us, they even put their own bins out.

Next week: My garage shame with the ‘extra long’ petrol hose that wouldn’t reach my tank.