I’ve never had a mistress, cruel or otherwise. I have often wondered what the term really pertains to but I had an epiphany at 4.45pm today as I crawled home in a red Vauxhall in sub-tropical heat on the cruellest mistress of all: the M25. Unavoidable, hateful but peculiarly moreish, she is the drug that is an addiction with no known cure. I surveyed the scene: end users looked angry. This fury emanated in not letting others pull over, aggressive, elongated horn blows and some measure of effing and jeffing from the windows directed at fellow asphalt addicts. The BMW drivers looked terrified that, as slaves to the machine, they might miss ‘that meeting’.

Not only was I inert in a rapidly overheating Corsa, but the car smelt of decomposing avian flesh. A few days ago, a pigeon collided, at pace, head on, as I dallied in the fast lane. Unable to stop, I lay in bed at night pondering why feathers did not spew out from the undercarriage across the central carriageway. I surmised that said bird got wedged in my radiator grille, succumbed to a needless demise, and was currently slow roasting each time I hit 3rd gear. I don’t enjoy the aesthetic of feathers, nor do I embrace death, so a car that smells like a broken lift is the order of the day until I sell the thing to some unsuspecting punter on Gumtree. Thankfully, three packs of magic tree air fresheners are on offer at present so I plan to mask the smell of decomposition with an approximation of what a magic tree might smell like if it existed.

With an evening after work ‘to-do’ list the length of Inspector Gadget's arm, the M25 is a sobering experience with which to waste the most precious commodity of all. It is staid, has little in terms of entertainment value besides counting the numbers of fellow traffic jammed texters and nose pickers. In its defence, the M25 boasts some semi-impressive ‘facts’. It is the second largest ring road in the world after Berlin's hastily named ‘Berlin Ring’ and it would take 1 hour and 40 mins at 70 mph to complete a circuit, if you could average 70 and had little else to do with your downtime.

It spawned Road to Hell by Chris Rea, which is another reason for disdain. And finally, as well as the band Orbital being named after the road, Iain Sinclair wrote a book entitled London Orbital about the year he spent walking around the motorway. I hazard a guess that Mr Sinclair, was, and remains, resolutely single.

For respite, when stuck in a jam after a windscreen wiper comes off a Nissan Note, causing the Highways Agency to shut down two lanes for 16 hours, I often take refuge in the services. A desperate, instantly regrettable move. As sterile an environment as you will find outside of a hospital operating theatre. The toilets are cramped and reek, despite signatures showing they are supposedly cleaned every 15 minutes, it's eyes front and you slowly read the injury lawyers' and penile dysfunction cure adverts staring you in the face and convincing you that you have a problem you didn’t previously know you had. This is prior to hitting the happy or sad face, which is rendered pointless as you never see if you backed the winner, or what the forfeit is for abject toilet experience failure. All food and drinks items are the normal price, but with a zero thrown on the end for good measure, the fast food outlets are manic and not fast at all, the staff are rude and you worry constantly that a random is going to jemmy the Corsa door open and deprive you of your overnight bag.

The M25 is cruel and unfulfilling, yet unavoidable. I use her for a hair-raising rush hour four junctions a day and get more enjoyment from repointing my brickwork. That said I am trying to force myself to love my mistress come what may. I just wish she were more forgiving, would give me more space and less hard shoulder, and didn’t leave me feeling like I can’t leave her no matter how much I try.