Dear Women drivers

I hate you. I'm allowed to say that because I am one. But having spent my entire four-wheeled life defending my sex against the charge that we can't drive, I am now being driven insane by those I championed.

Take Volvo Woman. She doesn't notice that the lights have changed until they are edging back to amber, at which point she lurches forward, leaving a queue of spitting motorists in her wake. Volvo Woman cannot see the lights because she is too busy tending to Sophie and Christian in the back, who are savaging each other like pit bulls, or tipping their organic milkshakes over the upholstery.

Ladies, take note: children and cars do not mix. If you cannot concentrate with your offspring in your car, then make the little brats take the train. Or don't have any.

Even less roadworthy is Mrs Dither. Mrs Dither drives a brightly coloured Metro or Micra bought by hubby (her words) as her "little runaround". Its engine will be no more powerful than 1.1 litres (roughly equivalent to a Tonka toy), but that is no excuse for her failure to travel at anything faster than 23mph.

Stuck at a junction because the car in front of you won't push its way out? Eighteen three-point turns and she still can't get into that 20ft parking space? Queues at the petrol station because someone can't work out how to get her petrol cap off? You can bet your big end it's Mrs D. Every time.

If that isn't bad enough, in 30 years' time she evolves into Granny Oblivious, sailing lethally along in her Austin Maestro. You can almost hear her muttering to herself: "I didn't live through the war to have to start worrying about that Highway Code rubbish ... I pay my taxes ... Oh look, there's a nice bollard. If I drift a little further to the right, I should just about be able to clip it ..."

Whoever coined the term "road rage" met these women beforehand. I hold them personally responsible for the bad PR we still face.

But now a new, more frightening vision has appeared. She's hard. She's tired of your jibes. She'll send you running for your Tube pass. She is Turbo Bitch.

Turbo Bitch has a sleek new Japanese car, wears make-up that could freeze diesel at 20 yards, and she is going to make you pay. Her mission? To prove to you that Women Drivers Do It Meaner.

I would applaud her, but for one small problem. She hates me. In fact, she hates all women drivers. If you're female and trying to pull out of that side road, Turbo Bitch will fix you with a Max-Factored sneer and pull slowly past. She'll cut you up and steal your parking space. And then she'll turn her nose up at your bodywork. It's enough to make you buy a bike.

JOJO MOYES