I have often been a victim, albeit a minor one, of road rage.

I've had boy racers up my bumper when I've been exceeding the speed limit on the M23.

I've had people in flash four-wheel drives tooting and flashing their lights at me when I've been a little too hesitant at busy junctions.

I've had my husband cursing me for leaving the car unlocked.

But I had never been a victim of "road praise" - defined as being the moment when another motorist congratulates you on your driving - until last week when I was taking my daughter Eve to her nursery.

By sheer fluke, I managed to park our Ford Escort Estate in a space more suited to a Reliant Robin.

And I'd done it in one quick and simple reverse manoeuvre.

As I was standing by the side of the car, still stunned by my achievement, a driver of another similar-sized estate car who had failed to get into the space himself, pulled up and said: "Very nice bit of parking."

"Thanks," I gasped. "I don't know how it happened."

Of course, the problem I then had later on was trying to get the car out. Like some sort of Alice in Wonderland conundrum, the vehicle either had got much bigger or the space had become even smaller.

I had to do at least 50 manoeuvres before I could edge out the bumper.

And then I forgot to pay attention to the road and pulled out in front of a white van hurtling towards me.

Before he swerved out of the way, I could see the driver was swearing at me and making rude gestures with his hand.

That's more like it, I thought.

Sadly, I'm not likely to experience road praise very often.

I'm not a bad driver, but I do have a habit of being careful and conscientious for long periods and then letting myself down on the home straight by doing something embarrassingly silly, such as inadvertently getting in the way of white van drivers.

It often happens when I cook, too.

The proof, usually, is when I drop the pudding.

Or when I spill three ounces of salt on the basil and tomato salad.

Or when I announce that dinner should be ready any minute and then realise I forgot to switch on the oven an hour ago.

I used to enjoy dressmaking until it became evident that everything I created could only be worn once before the hems fell down.

And then they'd invariably disintegrate in the wash because I hadn't paid attention to the material's washing instructions.

"Why don't you try to do everything slowly, but well?" suggests my husband, who is the epitome of doing things slowly, but well.

"I try to," I whine. "But I lose interest before I reach the stage of, 'hey, why don't I make a full-scale space rocket out of milk bottle tops this afternoon?'"

If I do manage to do something well right to the end, I am usually too shocked to be delighted and feel too embarrassed to accept accolades.

"Are you sure you want to give this to me?" I expect I'll say when they try to award me the Nobel Prize for literature.

"Don't you know that my spelling is atrocious?"