Why Have I Started Commentating on Other People’s Driving

Why Have I Started Commentating on Other People’s Driving (and the State of the Roads) While Taking My Son to Sixth Form?

Somewhere between my son starting sixth form and my wife entering menopause, I appear to have become a driving pundit.

Not a road rage merchant — let’s be clear. This isn’t shouting, swearing, or gesticulating wildly like a rejected extra from Top Gear. No. This is calm, forensic, disappointed commentary. Think David Attenborough, but for roundabouts.

It started subtly.

“Bit close, that.”
“Why are you braking there?”
“Those potholes are getting worse.”
“Is that lane even a suggestion anymore?”

Before I knew it, I was delivering a running monologue on road conditions, driver competence, council neglect, tyre wear, and the moral decline of society — all before 8:45am.

My son says nothing. He just stares straight ahead, AirPods in, pretending he doesn’t know me. Wise move.

Here’s the thing: this isn’t about driving.

This is about control. Or rather, the slow realisation that I no longer have much of it.

At home, I live with menopause. Which means logic has left the building, emotions arrive without notice, and the thermostat is a weapon. I am outnumbered and outmatched. The car, however, is my domain. My rolling throne of relevance.

And when the world feels slightly off — hormones, moods, exhaustion, existential dread — you start noticing everything that’s wrong outside of you.

The potholes feel personal.
That Audi feels aggressive.
That white van definitely shouldn’t be in that lane.

I’m not angry. I’m auditing.

There’s also the midlife factor. You reach an age where your brain says, “You’ve been driving for decades. Why is everyone else worse at this than they were yesterday?”
They’re not. You’re just more aware. More tired. Less tolerant. And secretly wondering how your son is old enough for sixth form when you still feel about 32 on a good day.

Add menopause into the mix — the shared sleep deprivation, the emotional whiplash, the quiet background stress — and suddenly narrating traffic becomes a coping mechanism.

If I can’t fix hormones, moods, or the cost of living…
I can at least point out that the road markings have faded dangerously near the junction.

So yes, I now commentate while driving.
I am aware of it.
I am not stopping.

It’s cheaper than therapy.
Safer than bottling it up.
And frankly, someone needs to say something about those bloody potholes.

Midlife is weird. Menopause-adjacent midlife is weirder.
If you find yourself calmly explaining to nobody why that manoeuvre was unnecessary — welcome. You’re among friends.

Just… indicate properly, yeah?