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Is the traffic in Cape Town getting worse, or is it just my imagination? I left home an hour later this morning in hopes of missing the bulk of the traffic, when instead I was subjected to a roller coaster ride of traffic jams, flying police cars, ambulances, lane closures and advanced breaking techniques. By the time I’d got to work, my nerves were frazzled, my mouth was dry and I’d developed a headache that only copious amounts of paracetamol could cure.

Forget the toll roads. The government should charge an entrance fee for the sheer adrenalin rush and death defying experience that you get as soon as you leave the safety of your driveway. Turning unsuspectingly onto the highway this morning, I’m cruising along, window open. It’s a lovely day, the mountain is warming up and emerging from the shadows on my left. The city is bathed in an incandescent film of silvery-grey smog on my right. I whistle along to an up-beat ditty that’s sprung into my head, marvelling at the beauty of the city we live in. Suddenly, without warning I come around a corner where the road descends into a slight dip. The traffic is backed up to the corner, and all you can hear is the screech of break pads as drivers skid to an unsuspecting and sudden halt. The pungent odour of smoking rubber fills the air, mixed with idling exhaust fumes, it’s enough to make you gasp desperately for breath and sandwich your lips to the car air conditioner (if you’re that lucky).

Finally having recovered from the carbon monoxide poisoning and the rattled nerves from the sudden breaking fiasco, I continue on my way. Past UCT and I finally manage to get into third gear. Whoopie. As the ant-like line of cars approaches the turnoff to the N2, the faint melody of sirens can be heard in the distance. Glancing in the rear view mirror, I see nothing unusual. Now correct me if I’m wrong, but if you’re a police officer, heading towards a crime scene, you don’t drive at breakneck speeds when you’re weaving in and out of unsuspecting motorists on their way to work in the morning traffic. Why risk twenty lives when trying to save one?

Out of nowhere a convoy of not one, but FIVE police cars, an ambulance and two motorbikes whiz past like all the fury of hell is behind them. The double lane highway parts like the red sea with frantic motorists humping the curve on the left and scraping the metal railing on the right. The sirens are deafening. The car in front of me smashes into the car in front of it. Chaos breaks out. Not a single police car stops. Priorities, I guess.

Managing to avoid a pile-up by a few seconds and some deft manoeuvring, I rejoin the flow of traffic towards hospital bend. Now those two little words strike fear into the hearts of many an experienced motorist. Two highways converge into one. Those on the highroad, need to get to the low road, those on the low road aspire to the higher tarmac. The frenzied criss-cross of frantically indicating cars and honking of horns is enough to make you wish technical advancement had come to an end with the horse and cart. As luck would have it, I managed to position myself in the correct lane, the fast lane, with a clear view ahead of the city. I could even see the top floor of my building poking through the smog. But alas, it was not to be.

A man in a bright yellow all-in-one suit is standing in the middle of the fast lane waving a red flag up and down like his life depended on it – and it did. Swerving dangerously I barely missed sending him flying into the cycads at the side of the road. A quick glance in the rear-view mirror confirmed that the same thing almost happened with the car behind me. The yellow man must have a death wish, or balls of steel to be standing there like that in the middle of the fast lane around hospital bend. The reason becomes clear a few seconds later, when an overturned cement truck lies leaking its sticky load all over the road. Once again there’s a collective screeching of breaks and the now familiar intoxicating fumes waft into my open window. Sighing I come to a standstill and its ten minutes later when we’re able to move again. Needless to say, there is still not a police car in sight.

Weary after that, I proceed with the utmost caution. Who cares if I’m two hours late for work? My life is more important. Turning into the car park I come to a standstill in my allocated parking bay. I need an extra five minutes to regroup and gather my shattered nerves. Hell, if that’s what a motorist has to go through just to get to work in the morning, I’m selling my car and moving to Putsonderwater. Life in the fast lane is clearly not for me.