There has been a lot of talk of late amongst the chattering classes about gender.  At the risk of going out on a limb I am female, always have been and have never even imagined going down market and becoming male.  If in these difficult times you are not totally sure about someone (He or she?  It?) there is an acid test which will solve the problem in a trice, beyond reasonable doubt as we say in law world.  Tell the person you have just got a new car and if the first question is ‘What colour?’ you are in the presence of a woman.

I have, unusually for me, done some research on the subject.  During 20 years of marriage we owned no less than 27 cars and so it’s a fact.  Men always ask something dull about the maker, the cost or the ‘engine capacity’ – nothing that I could reasonably be expected to know.

27 cars may sound a little excessive to the untrained ear, especially in a family where the main breadwinner was not a car salesman or a car thief but it was our own special way of saving the planet. I would never dream of taking my gas guzzling 4×4 just to pop out for lunch.  Nothing less than serious trips to the garden centre could justify such careless consumption of the world’s limited resources although I must confess that for me ‘off road’ only ever meant parking on the pavement.  When we spent long periods of time in Cornwall it would have been certain social death to be seen in such a vehicle, marking you out immediately as a tourist, almost certainly from London and possibly even a caravan tower and therefore not privy to all the advantages that are automatically bestowed on small cars with Free Kernow stickers, especially with regard to mildly illegal parking.  A convertible was always one of the fleet so that the children could enjoy fresh-ish air and commune with Mother Nature without Mother Kingston having to drag round Richmond Park with a buggy and flat shoes.  I continue to afford them those simple pleasures, mostly because they have failed to master the art of walking anywhere. So, do the maths people.  That is a minimum, minimum, of three cars.

Being green was also why my husband’s favourite car at any time (Number 4) tended to remain in the garage.  This would always be an extremely powerful sports car that he was incapable of driving and therefore had so much lead in the bodywork from constant repairs that it was a bio-hazard for any child to be within fifty paces, even if they didn’t risk a quick lick.  For a clever man he was extremely slow to realise that such cars are the vehicular equivalent to leather trousers and a medallion. One son did remark that Porsches hadn’t made it into the ‘Top Ten Cars chosen by Footballers’ (It had sunk to number eleven, even with them) and he actually thought that made it an acceptable choice. Doh!  So Number 5 would be something he could manage on a daily basis.  Like a Robin Reliant.

As to my latest vehicle it’s red, since you ask and for the boys, yes, it does have some sort of engine.  I must admit to the truth of a story that on being asked by a mechanic about my tyre pressure I shot him a withering look and replied haughtily ‘How would I know?  Cars like this come ready inflated’.

Happy motoring