While I’m not claiming to be a staunch feminist who spews man-hating drivel, I am one for equal rights.
For me, there’s one simple rule: neither sex is superior.
While there are obvious differences between the two, we are equals and that’s how we should be treated, right?
When it comes to sexism, my real pet hate is stereotypes and, believe me, plenty exist.
There’s the one where men are great at DIY – Hubby doesn’t even know how to use a hammer.
The other that women are born domestic goddesses – behind every closed door in Casa BR is hidden chaos. It’s organised mess ok?!
Then there’s the really annoying one that women can’t drive and don’t know anything about cars – I’ll have you know I passed my test first time… and, erm, I know nothing about cars.
And this little fact here is my downfall.
I literally know nothing about cars. I have never made an attempt to learn anything about cars. And yes, at 30-years-old, still rely on my Dad to check the oil, tyre pressure and whatever else he does (see, clueless) on a rare 200-mile trek home.
I know how to drive a car. In fact, I’d say I’m pretty darn good at it, but when it comes down to how they work I know nada – absolutely nothing.
I hate myself for this because I’m often left feeling, well (if I may stereotype), like a girl.
So, determined to overcome my lack of simple knowledge, today I decided to brave the big bad world of cars and check my tyre pressure at the garage.
I typed in the desired pressure and inserted the 30p they charge for air and, “BEEP”, the impossible race to complete the task within three minutes began – Krypton Factor eat your heart out.
After locating the valve and unscrewing the cap, I pressed the attachment on and let out a sigh of relief when my plan started to come together.
“This is so eas…”
Before I could even finish congratulating myself, the machine started going mad.
With an F1 error flashing on the screen and the beeping bellowing around the fairly busy forecourt like a fog horn, I ripped the attachment out, took a deep breath and tried again.
Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as second time lucky in my life. This time my tyres started hissing and the screen flashing 6… then 22… 18… 7… then F1. (That wretched F1.)
Swallowing my pride, I turned to the person vacuuming their car next to me (a girl).
“This is really embarrassing but do you know how this thing works?”
“Haven’t a clue,” she replied.
I should have known.
Gritting my teeth, I sheepishly went into the garage for help and, obviously, the guy behind the counter was the type who holds the stereotype that women know nothing about cars: beefy, covered in oil, dungarees.
After explaining the whole F1 error – at this point I was still clinging tightly onto the hope that it was the machine and not me – he said he’d have a look.
Hovering over the tyre, I crossed my fingers and prayed for the F1 error. (Come on F1, where are you when I need you?)
No such luck. 25… 27… 29…31.
With a smirk on his face, he peered up and gave the look – the typical ‘girl knows nothing about cars’ look – and said: “There you go love. It’s fine, you just weren’t pushing hard enough. Do you want me to do the rest?”
Flame-faced and unable to lift my eyes from the floor, I nodded and whispered: “Yes please.”
So next time I’m home, instead of getting Dad to brave the cold and sort out my tyres while I’m cosy and warm inside, I’ll join him and learn how to pump up my own bleedin’ tyres.