My relationships with cars are probably as successful as my ones with the opposite sex. The one notable exception to the car rule was my Lotus Elise, which short of attaching my godchildren to the front and rear bumpers, I could not have driven with more love, care and attention.

My current car, on loan from my mother, is a blue Punto. Sadly it is not getting the same levels of love as the Elise. I now understand why people give their cars a name. Some vehicles do seem to have a personality. The Punto’s personality is filled with hatred – for me. I won’t tell you the name I have given the car, let’s just say it rhymes.

My first problem with the car occurred when I got done for speeding – in a Punto! I don’t think most people could achieve this if they tried. The car appeared to deliberately accelerate as it went over the white speed lines, it seemed more determined to get snapped than Jodie Marsh at an opening event.

The next problem was when driving to a ball. The car suddenly became engulfed in plumes of white smoke. I switched off the engine and went to step out. Unfortunately, I was not appropriately dressed for public view.

I had thrown on the nearest items of clothing for driving. I was wearing some suspect dungarees and hiking boots. In contrast my hair was perfectly bouffant and my make-up on the far side of dramatic. As I stepped out of he car I was like a member of Dexys Midnight Runners, emerging onto a Top of the Pops stage filled with dry ice. I thankfully resisted the urge to sing “come on you Punto, oh i swear you Punto, I’ll give you everything.� After some external assistance, for the car, not my singing, I managed to get moving again.

The third event happened when driving back from home yesterday. Shortly after passing the N4 toll, on the busy dual carriage way, I started to hear a clunking noise from the back. I pulled over and got out. I looked around the car. I kicked the tires, as this was the extent of my car expertise. Everything appeared ok, so I drove on.

The noise started with even more intensity. I pulled over once more. During this circuit of the car I noticed a cylindrical object, hanging from the under carriage like metallic afterbirth. I suspected this was not good. So, which of the following do you think I had?

Fully paid-up AA coverage.
A charged and functioning mobile phone.
An attack of tourettes that would make the must severe sufferer seem mute in comparison.

I inserted the phone battery between my ample thighs in the hope that my body heat would spark some additional life - my own portable Ard na Crusha. When I had sufficient battery power, I contacted my sister and “borrowed� her AA coverage.

An hour passed and the AA man had still not arrived. I was starting to regret my significant water consumption, which almost sent me over the hedge and into a nearby field. Finally, 2 very long, leg crossing hours later, the AA man arrived – I was saved.

The AA man emerged from his van, walked to my car, reached under and pulled out the metallic afterbirth aka the exhaust. He opened the boot of my car and placed the exhaust inside. The whole process took less than 60 seconds. Next, he turned to leave saying,

“right, you can drive home now�
“but what about my car, isn’t it broken?�
“your exhaust fell clean off, it will drive perfectly, just a bit noisy. Go to a garage and get a new exhaust fitted when you can�
“I just waited 2 hours for that!�
“I just drove from Portarlington for that, guess neither of us is having a good day.�

I got back in the Punto, spluttering with rage and humiliation, and drove back to Dublin. Despite having the radio at full blast, to drown out the sound of the exhaust, I could swear I heard the car laughing.