The car has died. Well, not so much died as is lying there on life-support, just waiting for us to give the go-ahead to switch off its systems and let it gracefully pootle off to the scrapyard in the sky.

It’s a good age, though, and has had a fair innings. But at some point, when faced with a potential garage bill that is several times greater than the actual value of the vehicle, you have to slap a “do not resuscitate” sticker on it and think about the good times.

As a result, I am now commuting on the bus. It feels an expensive way to get about, though not as expensive as petrol, road tax, insurance and the ever-present threat that something is going to go vastly wrong which will incur an eye-watering bill.

I miss the flexibility of being able to jump in the car, listen to the radio, sing and head off whatever time I want, but I also enjoy the extra freedom the bus ride allows – no stressing about bad weather making driving difficult, no wondering if “empty” on the petrol gauge really means “empty”, or if I can get another journey out of it, no sudden shrieks as someone pulls out in front of me or decides to stop in the middle of the road for a chat with their mate walking by. Also, I get to read, or stare out of the window, which is always a bonus. Less of a bonus is seemingly attracting, like a magnet, large men in woolly hats who sit next to me, chuntering to themselves.

I recently found myself in London, and after having usual northern collywobbles about whether surrendering myself to the Underground network would actually get me where I needed to be or whether I would emerge, blinking, into Deptford or somewhere several hours later, I took the plunge.

The Tube is a weird thing, never moreso than at rush hour, which was when I found myself trying to get from one bit of London to King’s Cross station. Having my nose in the armpit of a man staring intently at his iPhone for four stops made me realise that if I ever harboured ambitions to work in the Capital, I now fully accept that I am too old to put myself through commuting on the London Underground on a daily basis.

Even when I thought there was no more room to be had in the carriage, and my nose and the iPhone man’s armpit were involved in a relationship so intimate that I thought they might run off to get married any moment, yet more people piled on, until I thought I’d probably be stuck on that train until the next day.

I started to wonder what would happen if the train ground to a halt there in the darkness, due to some unspecified disaster somewhere. Would we all pull together and help each other out? Or did the relative silence and lack of eye contact mean we’d all ignore each other. Who would we eat first, if it came to that? Would it be me?

It all made me quite glad to get on the bus when I was back in Bradford. Even with the chunterers, at least it’s civilised.