Like so many of us often are, I was in a mad rush when I hastily tapped my car registration details into a parking app, typing with one hand while wrestling the buggy containing my wailing toddler.

Traffic had been terrible and I was already late for a meeting. In other words, it was one of those days – and it was about to get a whole lot worse.

Because returning to my car just over an hour later, there it was: a yellow penalty notice clinging to my windscreen. But I'd paid for a ticket!

In fact, as I later discovered, technically I hadn't. In my haste, I'd accidentally keyed in a 'zero' instead of the letter 'O' when entering my car registration – and in these bureaucratic times there seems to be no room for human error or good intentions.

Contesting the fine sucked up vast swathes of time, patience and sanity – but I won because the 'keying error', it turns out, is pretty common. So why do we have to go through such a rigmarole, then?

Likewise, the myriad apps you need to download to park your car in the first place. Each site seems to have a different one, which can be a mind-numbing faff when you're at a windy Cornish car park with no signal.

But modern life is chock-full of such nuisances.

From those needy 'cookie' banners that pop up on every webpage we visit, demanding we 'manage our settings', to those pointless noisy train announcements honking every 15 minutes when all you want to do is read your book.

And don't get me started on the phone call to a company that becomes an archaeological expedition through a labyrinth of automated menus.

These everyday hairs in the soup grind us down. They are not quite big enough to require marches or petitions but, left unaddressed, they collectively start to eat away at our soul.

It's why, at the start of this month, I set up pressure group Quibble with my good friend Jonathan de Leyser. It was his idea, in fact, to establish what he called a 'campaign to fix the small stuff' – and having identified me as a natural quibbler, I came on board.

The plan is that we will use our experience in public policy (I'm an ex-Whitehall civil servant, and Jonathan works in public affairs) to oil the wheels of bureaucracy and effect change.

And it turns out we've struck a nerve. Our first social media posts received more than a million views and we've had hundreds of messages from people sharing their day-to-day frustrations.

From out-of-date Covid signs in public places ('Please keep your distance'!) to pointless road barriers erected for non-existent works, the gripes have been flooding in.

Another favourite has been the way websites have removed phone numbers – perish the thought you should be able to speak to a human being – leaving you at the mercy of a robotic AI webchat.

On one level, this is all a bit of fun, a chance to feel the warm embrace of a like-minded community that knows the soul-sapping horror of pressing yet another 'accept all cookies' box for the fourth time in five minutes. 

But there is also a bigger issue here, which is that tiny peeves have a habit of growing into bigger social problems.

As the Victorian proverb puts it: 'There's nothing in a little fly, until it gets into the eye.'

Think of the now-famous 'Broken Window' theory, put forward in 1982 by social scientists James Q Wilson and George L Kelling, which held that visible signs of disorder and neglect, such as graffiti and unrepaired property, create an environment that encourages further antisocial behaviour and serious crime.

Championed by a series of New York mayors in the 1990s as part of a 'zero tolerance' approach to petty offences, it was associated with a corresponding drop in violent crime.

Closer to home, there is the issue of neglected, dilapidated phone boxes that have become high street eyesores.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in Parliament Square by Big Ben in central London, as one complainer pointed out to us.

So Jonathan and I visited, clipboard in hand, as 'Ministers of Detail' – a term borrowed from the behavioural scientist Rory Sutherland, who has long championed the importance of small things.

Covered in graffiti and strewn with litter, many of the red phone boxes had shattered glass scattered across the floor. This matters, and not just if you're a fan of pleasing aesthetics.

There is a reason the late Singaporean prime minister Lee Kuan Yew took a personal and regular interest in the condition of the toilets at the city-state's Changi Airport – and not because he had a particular interest in the bathroom habits of visitors.

It was because he recognised that first impressions among all those arriving visitors left lasting imprints.

What message does the poor upkeep of these phone boxes project to the world?

It's certainly not one of proud historic heritage, but rather one of tragic decline. 

And their high-street cousins in towns across the country similarly leave communities with a sense of neglect.

It is frustrating enough, but even more so when you consider that there is often an easy solution to these niggles, should someone choose to take responsibility.

When it comes to phone boxes, for example, it turns out there are tricky rules about what can be done with them.

All that is needed is a little overhaul of those rules to make it easier to remove those phone boxes that are redundant and improve maintenance of the ones we still want and need.

Take those pesky website 'cookies', too: for years we've been tapping away at those buttons when the problem could have been fixed through the provision of a preference setting in your browser (the EU may possibly be ahead of us on that one – the measure forms part of its proposed new Digital Omnibus reform package, although member states may yet torpedo it).

This is where Quibble comes in. We don't just want to be a receptacle for complaints, but something that can make a real difference, by coming up with ideas and solutions that authorities can't ignore.

We recognise these complaints aren't the most important things in the world.

But perhaps by addressing them, one grievance at a time, we can remind our decision-makers that the small things are worthy of attention and care, too.

In the words of the 19th-century Anglican clergyman Sydney Smith: 'It is the greatest of all mistakes to do nothing because you can only do little.'