Do you know why I have a tiny car? Because I can’t park to save my life.

I rarely attempt to reverse into a space on my right because my brain just shuts down. No matter how many times I pull in and out of the space, I can never gauge exactly how much I need to turn the wheel. Then before you know it, I’ve spent 10 minutes playing the parking equivalent of the hokey cokey and the drivers behind me start beeping their horns.

Cue me bursting into tears and having to park in a remote place in Maryport and getting the bus back into Workington, all because I wanted a set of false eyelashes at Savers’ prices.

I’ve tried ‘driving’ into spaces in car parks in an attempt to avoid the pressures of interfering with other people who are more than capable of parking, but despite this I still can’t manage to get the old brum-brum straight or in the box completely.

I’m convinced I only passed my driving test because the prospect of taking me out again was too much for the examiner.

I needed to brush up on my skills so I had my bro take me to a supermarket car park one evening. He met me parked skew-whiff over two bays and settled himself into my passenger seat. “Take your time,” he advised. “Go slow and check your wing mirrors.”

Bless him. It turns out I just needed the support from a passenger seat-driver who wasn’t clinging on to the seat for dear life. His understanding was a godsend. My confidence was growing and my new found ‘zen’ parking state only helped my abilities to improve over the coming weeks.

Need in those tiny bays at big Asda on a Saturday? I’m there!

Want to pull into a space on Murray Road during the sales? Count me in!

I was a walking advert for those books you get to improve your confidence – but would it last?

Pulling into the staff car park on a late shift (a busy Monday when I was warned management were conducting a ‘routine’ visit i.e. because someone must have reported the recent increase in office stationery theft), I had a feeling I would be struggling to find a spot. I was surprised to find the ‘big guys’ were running late so I managed to bag a good one near the front door.

When I went back out later I was horrified to discover it was now basically a sardine, sandwiched between a large Jeep and a flashy, sports car. Not thinking, I scrawled, in lipstick, a note: “Next time you park next to me, leave me a TIN OPENER!!”

When I heard it was the area manager who owned the Jeep I took to taking the bus in. Ironic because it wasn’t technically a result of my parking (in)abilities.

Although it shouldn’t have, my new confidence shrank once more. So please bear with us bad parkers, we’re a complicated breed (of sardines).