Think of the children - save the planet!

I'm doing my bit with my car. It's not a Prius, it doesn't run on chip fat. And it's old, 13 years, and with a road tax pushing £200 but small engine you know it's from the era of cancer spewing death cars.

The way I look at it - there's enough C02 pumped out by building me my all new cool-mobile, and crushing the old one, to choke a fair sized Panda. By sticking to the car from the last century I'm actually saving lives. 

But now, like a couple of hippies on Grand Designs who want all natural and no concrete until they see the price, I'm starting to waver.

Four days in a shiny new rental car and I'm sorry animals, but you're all screwed. Lights that come on when it's dark - that's worth a baby meerkat or two. And crikey - wipers that sense the rainwater - sorry baby hippopotamous, you're just not that cute.

Coming back to the old jalopy the worst part wasn't leaning across to adjust the side mirror, and it wasn't the leaden feel of feet on pedals. Not even the inside fog mist that's like cataracts.

No, none of that. It was the smell.

Not a bad smell. Not the smell of endless coffee cups spilled in the side pocket, or that cucumber that rolled under the back seat.

It was the smell of memories. Of petrol and damp. Of hats slipping down over eyes, of grim reversings where no matter the kerb was two feet high and not a kerb at all, but dang it I will make it over despite all the crying from us kids in the back. The triumphant waving of disabled badges that means it's okay to park in the middle of a roundabout or up on that man's foot. 

My car reminds me of an elderly relative, long since passed. That's right, I have an old man's car.

No wonder the net curtains twitch when I drive past that retirement home two streets over.