There's definitely the whiff of spring in the air. My Mother's thoughts are turning to the garden and how she would like to plant some vegetables. Sadly, however, weeds have totally taken over and gardeners are demanding danger money to step beyond the front gates as they fear they may never re-emerge.

Toddler is asking whether he can go the park again and I have stopped trying to send him out in 35 layers of clothing - 34 is now adequate.

There is, however, one blot on the horizon - why is there a new car registration out already?

It annoys me that my once new and shiny car is no longer considered new even though it is still highly shiny.

I know I am not a car connoisseur. Throughout my three years of driving lessons I never cottoned on to what type of car I was driving and always referred to it as a blue one.

After finally passing my test (how scary that was, knuckles white, hair standing on end, and that was just the examiner) I was allowed to drive my dad's trusted Toyota.

Being a typical girlie I had always fancied a nice pink Barbie-type car with ribbons and a hairband. This Toyota was big and manly and silver and a bit like a car version of Robert Kilroy-Silk, but alas, not as smooth.

But I didn't mind. I had wheels and could go anywhere I wanted. Unfortunately I didn't really want to go very far and for the first year only managed to get to the fruit and vegetable shops on Oak Lane without having a major panic attack and wondering if I would breakdown/crash/be bludgeoned to death by youths.

I would prefer walking miles and cheerfully refer to it as exercise though secretly I would be praying for that day when I could finally move out of second gear.

Practice makes perfect, people would say, but I didn't believe them. But then Toddler needed to go to the doctor, or to the park to ride his bike, or to birthday parties and I realised that I wasn't going to be able to carry him and all his items and that I really would have to drive.

People started tempting me by building huge tantalising American-style out-of-town shopping complexes stuffed full of bargains and I started to think that maybe driving wasn't so bad after all.

When the Kilroy-Silk Toyota was finally on its last wheels I decided to buy a new car. But as in the name of the magazine - Which Car?

Watching car adverts helped me to make up my mind but my brother said this was silly and took me to a car showroom. That was also an eye opener and made difficult by my decision not to test drive because I was scared of stalling.

I was baffled by all the makes and designs and paraphernalia. I was dazzled by numbers - nought per cent finance, hire purchase, miles to the gallon, diesel, four-wheel drive etc and in the end I did what any sensible girl would do and opted for a shiny new black one.

"Was it its 3.2 fuel injection that won your heart?" asked my brother.

Yes, I said, thinking back to my dream pink Barbie-mobile. And black goes with anything.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.