I nearly drove into a wall the other day, because I couldn’t take my eyes off some spectacular wisteria. Ten years ago I doubt I would have even noticed it, or known what it was, never mind been so transfixed that I unwittingly endangered my life. It’s pretty much invisible in your youth, and then suddenly, at a certain age, or stage, you see it, appreciate it and become mesmerised by its impressive display.

My botanical brush with death was the moment that I knew for certain: no matter how I feel inside, I am now unquestionably a grownup. This wisteria hysteria isn’t an isolated incident, of course. There have been several other definitely adult signifiers:

Obtaining self-esteem via washing

At some point, trying to get your whites as white as possible changed from the pursuit of a cliche housewife in a mildly offensive advert to something I truly, madly, deeply care about. Nowadays, I would lean in to hear a killer laundry tip faster and more eagerly than I would for a juicy piece of gossip. I could probably have replaced all my family’s white clothing thrice over with the amount I’ve spent on alleged miracle products for whites so far (the search continues). I have also been known to boast to what I mistakenly believed were interested parties about how quickly I’ve put a wash on after returning from holiday, and take more pride in setting a new personal best than any runner in the history of marathons.

Womansplaining

Twice in the past week I’ve had to restrain myself from leaving a helpful note on a car that has been selfishly parked. I was convinced that if I explained what the person had done wrong, and how appallingly thoughtless they’d been, they would learn their lesson and not do it again in the future. If it’s any consolation, I do hate myself for it.

Seething on behalf of people who aren’t bothered

When you ring the bell on a bus, indicating that you want to get off at the next stop, a sign comes up saying: “Bus stopping.” That’s it: job done. But despite the letters clearly already being illuminated, every other person who wants that stop too then also rings the bell. Ding! Ding! Ding! If I were a bus driver, I would have been done for GBH by now; I’m coming fairly close just as a passenger. Ding! Ding! Ding!

Being cantankerous

A new cafe opened in my neighbourhood promising “hand-pulled noodles”. I didn’t know what they were, but rather than being curious or interested, I was annoyed. Being confused by food made me grumpy. Then I said, “Whatever next?” out loud at my son, who was watching YouTube footage of a stranger watching footage of another stranger playing a Nintendo game. And when a product talks to me – for example, has “I’m one of your five a day!” or “You can recycle me!” printed on the packaging, I’m not charmed by its whimsy – I think SHUT UP.

Having problematic views

You should be allowed to perform citizen’s arrests on pedestrians who don’t thank you when you stop for them at a zebra crossing. I accept that stopping is the driver’s legal obligation, but what are we, animals? Blanking someone who has graciously allowed you to walk past their windscreen is as bizarre as it is rude. I’m not expecting flowers, chocolates or the offer of a kidney should I ever need one – just a brief wave or nod. Surely that isn’t too much to ask? And if it is, let’s give them the chance to slowly see the error of their ways, while being detained at his majesty’s pleasure.

Taking moral stances that hurt only me

If I can’t make a reservation at a restaurant, I’m not going to it. The end. Permitting diners to book tables is the least an establishment can do – it’s as non-negotiable as serving food or supplying cutlery. I refuse to queue outside for ages to make a place look cool and popular. If you’re wondering whether this means there are many widely raved-about eateries I would absolutely love to go to that I can’t, then yes it does. This policy needs to be outlawed, and sometimes it only takes one person to make a difference – although it should be noted that thus far I have very much yet to.