Gridlock and civility have been driven away

The congestion charge has made the capital's drivers faster, more aggressive and much ruder

Three weeks after C-Day, we all have Tales to tell from the Zone, that wonderland of empty tarmac, fume-free parks and suddenly audible birdsong that the centre of London has become. Most of us also have prophecies of doom to recant. Mine was the vision of perpetual gridlock on the periphery and public transport crammed to Calcutta levels. You were right, Mayor Livingstone, and I was wrong.

I was right, on the other hand, about the fall in sales suffered by shops and businesses in the charging zone; let's hope this is temporary. I was also half-right about central London becoming a preserve of the well to do and their chauffeurs. The sheer quality of the cars you now see about town is infinitely higher than it was, in newness, spruceness and – to be brutal – in how much they cost. If you defined Mayfair by the density of Lexuses, Jags and Porsches, you could say that it now extends all the way from Regent's Park to Victoria.

But there have been less tangible effects. Driving in London used to be a combination of art and science inapplicable almost anywhere else in the world: a knack, born of experience, to which could be added elements of etiquette, discipline and flexibility, as required. Crossing London in a car, except on a Sunday or bank holiday, could be a source of endless frustration, but with the route well-chosen, lane discipline observed and some give-and-take, it could also be highly satisfactory.

Entering London – around Perivale from the west, or Wembley from the north – there was a moment when the traffic speeded up and you knew that you were approaching the capital. At that point, new rules came into play. It was better to know where you were going and how you were going to get there, but more often than not there was also a sense of collective realism, a sort of sportsmanship, that forgave mistakes and kept the traffic flowing. You could be driving a battered old Mini or a spanking new BMW, everyone had a place and – with rare exceptions – behaved with more than a modicum of civility.

Driving-in-London was something special. Hated or feared by many non-Londoners, it was an experience I came to savour; it was almost a pleasure. As a rule, the further into the city you came, the more civil the driving. No wonder the French Transport Minister recently urged his compatriots to drive more like the British, in the hope that adopting our more placid style of driving would cut France's execrable accident rate.

Already, though, I regret to report that attitudes are changing. Driving-in-London is becoming more like driving-anywhere-else. You can understand why. After all these years of crawling bumper to bumper, avoiding burst water mains and indulging the less competent drivers, you can now speed along London's Paris-style boulevards with only the occasional cyclist in your way. The roadworks have evaporated; the traffic lights change to green at your approach, the road is yours.

The congestion charge has made the capital's drivers faster, more aggressive and much ruder. People now sound their horns at the slightest hold-up. They have paid £5 for the privilege, and they expect a smooth run. London's drivers are now only a little more patient than than drivers in Paris or Rome, and they are fast catching up. Hardly anyone stops at zebra crossings any more; even a red light seems less of a hindrance.

All road traffic has been contaminated. Bus drivers rev their vast machines at the few traffic lights they must wait at, raring to go. They, too, have a new arrogance, pulling out into the main stream of traffic with nary a glance in the mirror, only to career down Fleet Street or Whitehall as though in a race. Without its traffic jams, London is producing a crosser, more competitive breed of driver.

For years, I felt that some of London's more endearing features were the sense of civility and the collective forbearing that people managed to preserve in the face of adversities, big and small. Rightly or wrongly, I harboured the romantic assumption that these qualities reflected the legacy of the Blitz – all those nights spent huddled in Underground stations, that spirit of mutual support that led people to offer shelter to complete strangers who had lost their homes to German bombs. Waiting and queueing were part of that heritage, as was our inexplicable tolerance of poor service. We were too grateful for anything.

A decade or so ago, London bowed to the inevitable and officially abolished the bus queue, condemning us to Continental-style scrums. In retrospect, that was the beginning of the end. Last year, the Queen Mother died, one of our last national links with that age. And now the traffic jams have gone. For better or worse, that is the end of the end of the spirit of the Blitz. Farewell, patience and forbearance. We can all drive like Parisians, now.

m.dejevsky@independent.co.uk