'I've got the hump with speed bumps in the West Midlands - here's why' – Toby Neal

I had got it into my head that it was at least a foot high. For those of you who only understand metric, a foot is fully 12 inches.

So I decided to measure it. Think back to your maths lessons and you will recall the mnemonic SOHCAHTOA by which if you know the angle and length of the slope you can, if memory serves, by drawing on a helpful book of coefficients/tables/magic numbers, work out the height.

But I didn't do any of that. I got out a plastic ruler and tried to do it by eye from the safety of the pavement.

The result was a great disappointment. The ruler only measured in centimetres but even I could see that 15 to 16cms was nowhere near my magic foot. Roughly about half, I would say.

But they really are out to get you. Motorists, I mean. The security apparatus of the state – infrastructure, cameras, laws – is arrayed against you, and in particular against your wallet, as you will be reminded when Robber Reeves unveils her Budget in October.

So, after many years of owning a car, I have bailed out. The tipping point came when I put my Ford Fiesta, which had given long and honourable service, and had travelled the equivalent of half way to the moon plus a bit extra, in for its MOT. It did pass after some relatively minor fixes, but the list of advisories was longer than a chapter of War and Peace.

That wasn't it, though. You can replace a windscreen wiper or a clutch – but when rust starts to get a grip, that's the end.

You don't see rust buckets on the roads in the way you used to. Italian cars had a particularly bad reputation. According to motoring folklore there was a Lancia which rusted so badly the engine would fall out.

I had someone look underneath to give an opinion on how much work would be needed to get my motor through the next MOT, reasoning that with the price of second hand cars these days even an expensive repair might still make economic sense.

The chap emerged from underneath amazed, but not in a good way.

I got £190 for it from those people on the telly, but didn't do a little dance like they do on the advert. I had added up all the motoring costs and compared them to train and bus travel. There would be a loss of freedom and flexibility, although if push came to shove I could borrow my wife's car. Ask to, anyway.

There was something more to getting rid of the car than the economics. I used to quite like driving, but driving these days is a horrible experience.

Speed limits of 20mph are popping up all over the place. Personally I don't particularly mind driving that slowly, but those monstering me in the mirror, as I obey the law, mind a lot.

Traffic is bad and is only going to get worse. In a traffic jam, it makes no difference whether you are in a £100k supercar, or a humble jalopy. In fact, if you choose the right crawling lane, you can in the latter overtake the former. Imagine that. You've spent a fraction of the price but are going faster than them.

There used to be quiet country roads where you would only occasionally see another car. Now you are confronted by oncoming traffic pushing you into the hedge with depressing frequency.

Then there are the mad drivers. You come across some aggressive, impatient drivers, in the daylight hours. But when darkness falls, they really come out to play.

After some weeks car-less, I am getting by fine, but realise that I am lucky in having a choice.

Years ago I was asked to take part in some motoring survey, and one of the questions was to choose my dream car. I said a Jaguar.

Today I would not choose a car at all. I would choose a chauffeur.