Hey, hippie, leave that 'screen alone!

[Motoring, with Eleanor Roosevelt]

Waiting for the lights to change used to mean just that: waiting. But nowadays, drivers must contend with a particularly odious creature: the uninvited windscreen washer. Yes, dear reader, I hear your groans - while you wait patiently, grubby ne’er-do-wells creep towards your vehicle, proffering a squeegee or filthy rag in your direction.

		Try as we may to ignore them, notice how they always manage to ensnare victims, even if the vehicle was spotless in the first place. It wasn’t always this way, of course. Do you remember the nice Mobil attendants, dressed in crisply ironed uniforms? Not only did they ‘fill ‘er up, Mack’, but they would check the oil and water, and also clean the windscreen as part of full driveway service. Not any more though. It’s all rush, rush, rush, and DIY these days… But I digress. Women are well aware of how easy it is for our men-folk to brush off such unpleasant entreaties. Then again, hippies and vagrants have an innate fear of the patriarch’s wrath, and will always keep a respectful distance. Perhaps they see a resemblance to their own fathers, who always said they’d amount to nothing.

But ladies, particularly when alone, seem to be dismissively ignored. Does this reflect our natural inclination to keep a tidy house, and by implication, a tidy vehicle? Or is it a ruthless exploitation of our maternal instincts, as mothers are more likely to give the weak, pathetic child the benefit of the doubt? Whatever the reason, it is unacceptable, in this or any age.

Why should I be forced to always have a passenger in tow, to ensure these ruffians give my Lincoln a wide berth? How many times must Big Jim Brown accompany me to the Spring Sales? And while I have been known to say that a menacing scowl from Mr. T is worth its weight in gold, I always live to regret such comments once he finds himself in the jewellery department.

Now, one can hardly expect the average woman to have access to such strapping fellows whenever she needs to get behind the wheel, so what advice do I have for my readers? Well, you’re going to like my simple, yet elegant solution: as the squeegee scourge prepares to pounce, hit the window wipers and squirt the washers with all the strength you can muster. Game, set and match.

So, ladies, there’s a new rule for happy motoring: a squirt a day keeps the hippie away.