Queuing at the roundabout on my morning commute, it certainly woke me up.
The driver behind me had moved forward prematurely. The result? Two shaken ladies and a little damage to both our vehicles.
After pulling over, we exchanged details. She, having been at fault, was more affected than I was. I expressed concern about whether she was OK to drive again and she reassured me that she was.
I've only had my little Fiat (fondly named Guido) for a couple of months. It's the newest vehicle I've ever owned. What bad luck, eh? What a scunner, as we say in the north-east. What a great excuse for a good old wallow in self pity.
Actually, no.
Let's put this little scenario in context. There I was. In my shiny, nearly new car. Commuting to a job that's stimulating, rewarding and which I'm well paid for.
I was unhurt. The damage to the car is minimal. If I need to fund the repair myself, then doubtless I'll be able to do so.
In the wider scheme of things, I'm healthy. My family are healthy. We are fortunate to have a nice roof over our heads and food in the cupboards.
Woe is me? I don't think so. What happened is a minor pothole on the comparatively smooth road of my life.
My problems are first world problems. Which means they're not really problems at all. Open your eyes a bit wider - switch on any news channel - and you'll catch my drift.
I'm no saint but I like to think I possess a little perspective.
That's why I feel sorry for the lady who ran into me. She got a real fright. I certainly don't feel sorry for myself.
It's only taken forty years. But I may have finally grown up.
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