A friend and I were standing outside her house the other day. She looked at my car, which was parked next to hers. ‘It’s far too clean’ she said. ‘You’re putting mine to shame’. I admitted I had just been through a car wash, but my reason for doing so wasn’t related to coming out with a clean car. ‘Oh, I just go in there to scream.’ I explained. She gave me a hard stare. Seemed pretty obvious really, but I elucidated further. I’d had a bugger of a morning, very stressful. The kind when you feel inanimate objects really are out to get you. So I performed one of my favourite acts of self-medication, second only to watching Big Brother whilst eating nibbling the chocolate off Maltesers (revolting I know, but, in the scheme of things, who does it hurt?). Anyway, I found a petrol station with a proper drive-in car wash. A jet wash, whilst enormous splashy fun, is not fit for the purpose. I bought the cheapest programme. Drove in. Waited until the brushes moved forwards and inwards and a ton of soapy water started splattering the windscreen and side windows. Then, when it felt like I might get drenched at any minute, I let rip. Screamed, shouted, bellowed, hollered. Bit of a sore throat afterwards, but otherwise fantastic. No-one could hear. Well, I don’t think they could. A great reliever of stress. Cheap. Harmless. No calories, no hangover afterwards. No warrant for your arrest, or people in white coats approaching with a straight jacket behind their backs. You do end up with an embarrassingly clean car, however.