Do you mind if I just park my column here? I know I'm actually supposed to park it on the next page but, to be brutally honest, I just can't be bothered.

Okay, so the next page is only a few inches away and it would only take me a matter of seconds to move my lightweight prose a smidgeon to the right, but why should I?

This is a perfectly good space, and it's closer to the letters, which means I don't have to strain my eyes to read them and end up with nasty old crows' feet.

So what if this is a no parking zone. I'll park my column wherever I please. I pay my taxes, so why should I have to give up my space just so some elderly disabled chap doesn't trip over his walking stick on the way to the letters' page, or some woman daft enough to lumber herself with kids doesn't lose one of her little darlings between the diary and the cartoon?

It's political correctness gone mad!

Whoever coined the phrase "it's political correctness gone mad!" should be fed to the politically correct wolves (they don't rip you limb from limb, but they do give you a very terse telling off), as should people who park in the pick-up bay at Tesco.

Maybe you think throwing other drivers into a pit of starving, rabid animals is a bit of an over-reaction, but I would beg to differ.

These people are so lazy that they need a wolf with blood dripping from its razor-sharp fangs just to get them out of bed in the morning.

The other day as I was lumbering out of the supermarket laden down with bags of groceries for my beloved family (okay, I admit it, I had a copy of The Sun, a French stick and a bottle of wine, but I was going to let the kids gnaw on the hard bits at the end of the bread), I saw two cars in the pick-up zone.

One contained two old dears gamely trying to lever themselves out of their seats. With much puffing, panting and leg-swinging, one made it through the door. She then proceeded to shuffle round to her passenger and, with one hand firmly planted on the dashboard for added leverage, she heaved out the other frail old lady, expending about as much energy as Captain Ahab landing Moby Dick.

After depositing her catch safely out of harm's way by the trolleys, the driver then shuffled back round to her side, lowered herself tentatively back into her seat and drove the ten yards of so to the nearest available parking space.

While all this was going on, a young woman, fit, healthy and probably about a quarter of the elderly driver's age, simply left her car at a jaunty angle in the pick-up zone, slung her bag over her shoulder and strode off to do her shopping. This is a woman who probably pays a personal trainer £30 an hour to shout at her while she walks on a treadmill, but she can't be bothered to walk ten extra yards in a supermarket car park.

It was 8.45am on a Wednesday morning. There were about 14 cars in the entire car park. There were spaces available right next to the pick-up zone. But she just had to park where she had to park.

She was a perfect example of how lazy we have become. In fact, I bet if I had wrestled her to the ground when she finished shopping I would have found bags of ready-peeled carrots, pre-mashed potato and pip-less lemons (honestly, they really exist - at £1.79 for four).

I have to admit I was very tempted to scratch her shiny red car with my keys as I mooched past cursing under my breath. But I couldn't be bothered.

Updated: 10:12 Monday, April 19, 2004