It is common knowledge that human beings have a bizarre attachment to their personal cars that doesn’t extend to other pieces of engineering. Manufacturers cottoned onto this very long ago and changed the simple motor vehicle from being a tool for getting from one point to another conveniently into an expression of individuality and character.

Thus, cads drive Jaguars. Pale accountants drive Hyundai Sonatas. Taxi bosses in KwaZulu Natal townships favoured the Toyota Venture for its bog-standard chassis that could be fixed with a rock, and could also fit into a minibus taxi. Brett Kebble was driving an E-Class Mercedes Benz when he was killed in Melrose Arch.

And so on.

There’s an entire industry – bolstered almost entirely by the residents of Phoenix, Durban – based upon modifying and personalising cars. You can lower, raise, tweak, subwoof, paint, bumper, bolster and bedazzle your car to fit any personal preference, no matter how weird or objectionable.

Then there’s the weird bedroom psychology that happens when people get behind the wheels of their cars. The warm cocoon (or ice-cold, in the case of the Venture) seems to give them an unwarranted sense of privacy that allows all sorts of amusing behaviour to come to the fore in traffic.

We’ve all seen the otherwise respectable businessman idly digging in his nostrils for goobers to eat, while stuck in traffic.

I have yet to hear a story of a lorry accident that came about because the driver was being fellated while barrelling down the highway at 110 kilometres per hour. On second thought, scratch that example. But you get my point.

It’s an odd juxtaposition, this sense that the car is an extension of oneself, whilst simultaneously seeming to be as private as a bedroom.

Now, I hold no truck with stereotypes about women. The worst drivers in Johannesburg are invariably in BMWs or in Toyotas, regardless of sex. The best driver I know is a woman.

But I do wonder why some women hang that “Baby on Board” sign in their back window. Is this a plea for understanding that I don’t get? Should we drive slower? Not honk? Why is it necessary for the public to be thus informed?

Could the motivation be the same as the one that drives yummy mummies in Hyde Park and Sandhurst to buy the BMW X6, the Volvo XC90 or any of the other monstrously ugly and utterly pointless suburban tractors? The generally accepted wisdom among car salesmen is that these women buy these monstrosities because they feel safer.

A Canadian newspaper interviewed a Laurie Jenner (53) on her purchase of a Chevrolet Tahoe (a car so grotesque, it seems like an ironic joke). She said, “I know Mandy (her environmentally-friendly daughter) says I should buy something more environmentally friendly, but I just like being up high. It makes me feel like I can see the road better,” said Mrs. Jenner. “Driving an SUV just makes me feel safe. Sort of like I’m riding in a big bubble. Or a tank.”

This is a bit silly, given how high the standard of car safety these days is. Are the occupants of a Mercedes Benz ML500 any safer than those of a Mercedes Benz C63 AMG in a terrific accident?

But there you are. Hang an announcement that is utterly pointless in the back of your vehicle. Drive a ridiculously large vehicle because it gives you tank commander fantasies and makes you feel a little bit invincible. Pick your nose in traffic because you think nobody can see you. These are things I don’t get.