We call her Vera, and she takes us where we want to go. Or, perhaps, where she thinks we need to go—like the Tardis whisking the Doctor around the universe.
Vera says: Prepare to turn right in two hundred yards.
She says: At the roundabout, take the third exit.
And we obey, because she’s in charge. We type in postcodes and allow her to dictate our every move. When we stop for lunch, veering from her chosen path, she throws a bit of a tantrum, telling us to take U-turns at the first opportunity.