caught in the tractor beam

I prefer the layby to the fastlane, so I wanted transport which made both a statement about who I am, and which other drivers would respectfully give a wide berth. Nothing too showy or intimidating, mind. I don't like to flaunt my wealth (ha ha). When you are more short-sighted than Mr Magoo, when you are clumsy and absent-minded, you need to journey safely at all times. Ruling out a chairlift, the only other suitable option for me was a grazing cow.

I couldn't manage to hire a cow, but I thought a tractor would be the next best choice. I spotted it when negotiating terms with my local farmer for the pick of his herd. Unlike farm animals, tractors come with accessories, and I received a little cart which I joined to the back of the tractor to carry my shopping; designer labels from the sales. Hell, I was even able to let my manservant, David, have the day off.

I had a small hankering, initially, for a fire engine, because you can run all the city's red lights, in the company of a handsome male crew. I think my sexist approach somewhat coloured my dealings with the army. I fancied a Sherman Tank too, but the Ministry of Defence experienced a major sense of humour failure and said they couldn't afford the threat to national security. I told them I was merely dropping into Frasers, not invading it. I had to agree with them, though, in the end. I know what it's like to endanger life, which is why I usually stay off the road.

I have clashed with the polis many times. I remember when I reversed up the hard shoulder of the M8. I was late and lost, and thought the previous motorway sign could refresh my memory. Whenever I have to do something complicated, like park, or change into fifth gear, I am always careful to put on my hazard lights to let other drivers know that I am a loony. In court, I can always say they were warned.

There's not a lot to say about being on a tractor. You can go from zero to five miles per hour in approximately 15 seconds. For the photoshoot I drove obligingly to the playing ground of Morriston YMCA in Cambuslang. The tractor chugged like a little tugboat. Steam came out the pipe. It was very Popeye. You need your spinach to hang on to the damn thing, not because it goes fast, but because it is so bouncy. I thanked the Lord that I had taken the precaution of wearing my sports bra.

This tractor was constructed in the sixties. The accelerator is like a metal stirrup, and you depress the foothold to get moving. There were only two gears that I could find, and one of them was to reverse. I was concerned about the location of the brake, because I anticipated many emergency stops, allowing for chickens and children and dog walkers and other annoying obstacles, but couldn't find it. To tell the truth, you don't really need a brake on transport of this calibre, because it tends to terminate of its own accord anyway, every time, in fact, you hit a clump that is the paddock that these under-21s play football on.

I had to endure my fair share of gawpers as I skilfully turned into the road. ''Who's the dolly bird?'' shouted a client at a nearby burger caravan. However, I fulfilled my ambition of driving a tractor along a Scottish country road, of constipating the flow of traffic, and successfully frustrating the queue of cars behind me. You see, I have been stuck behind too many tractors, too many times, on my way out to the hills, to be forgiving. I only took to the road in this heap to exact revenge. Darlings, why ever else?