Ever wondered why the motoring Gods smile on some and reign vengeance down on others? I have, writes Simon from Dudley.

My first car was a Vauxhall Chevette with two-tone paint and a lopsided driver’s seat.

It was re-christened the “Shove It” as it steadfastly refused to start for journeys any more serious than a trip to the chippy.

The next, a white Metro, blew a head gasket, divested itself of the exhaust, shrugged off a back window and snapped a clutch cable.

It repaid my loving care and attention by getting itself stolen a week after being repaired and MOT’d.

The next, another Metro, fell to pieces so dramatically, all that was left was a pair of clown shoes and a red nose the previous owner must’ve left in the boot.

My beautiful 1.6 Escort was traded in for a Mondeo Zetec whose engine management system committed suicide after only five weeks in my care and I had a brief affair with a Toyota Carina that met an untimely end on a stretch of motorway between Birmingham and Aberystwyth.

But all that’s behind me now. I’m in love. I bought an S reg, 1.9 diesel, Skoda Felicia Estate with a full service history and low mileage.

It’s silver with drab grey interior, handles like a tank and has the turning circle of the Arc Royal. I think it may be bullet-proof.

You can keep your BMW’s with their power-assisted sneering and your Mercedes with their tilt and snide sunroofs – I’ve got a ton and a half of scrap metal on wheels that starts when it should, stops when it has to and will never be stolen from the Asda car park. Ever.

Even with all the doors open and a sign saying: “Take me, I’m yours!” – that’s my kind of car!

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