As driving goes, I am pretty crap really as my attention span is weak and I find it a pretty tedious process that, alarmingly, makes me want to just doze off.

I kind of need a new car now, but my lack of enthusiasm (and knowledge) leaves me scrolling through websites with a vacant brain wondering who is going to eye me up as a sitting duck for an ill-judged purchase.

So generally, I just give up and wait for a crash or multi-thousand pound malfunction which leaves me with no option. The last two occasions have been when a mechanic sucks in air through his teeth and says…”Diesel Particulator mate…not good.”

I have a hunch that a ‘diesel particulate’ spells ‘easy cash’ but I don’t know that for sure because I wouldn’t know what one was…but we are talking thousands of pounds here, or £300 to a bloke (presumably VW trained) who will “rip the guts out of it” and say no more.

At the moment my car has a crack on something other than the exhaust ( I sort of know what an exhaust is) that makes a noise that kind of reminds me of the same sound one emanates when undertaking a nervous fart on a train after a night on the vindaloo.

My Car: Dodgy Fart Sound

Apparently we are talking £600 + vat + labour + other little bamboozling repairs that will edge the cost towards a grand, so I have checked my breakdown insurance and decided that I might just drive it until it dies.

Failing that, I could sell my house, buy a semi-detached bench (with fitted sleeping bag) on the embankment and use public transport, but even I admit that it would be a somewhat bizarre solution with regards to car salesman avoidance.

I have digressed on many occasions here so I think I will just get to the heart of  the matter.

I hate cars and I hate people who sell or repair them.