The fear of cheating on an old faithful car

I FEEL dirty. I was on one of those websites. You know, the ones with the photographs of the different models. Lurid claims about performance were splashed all over the pages and it was clear a lot of them had work done. Everything is for sale and there is much hyperbole. After all, most cars have alloy wheels.

Even though it’s just a hunk of metal (and whatever the inside is made of), I think I’m cheating on my car. Nonsensical as it may sound, fondness for inanimate objects is hard to avoid. No matter how much you say “well, that hoover/kettle/brushpan set/underpants didn’t owe me anything, anyway,” you feel guilty throwing it away.

This object may have been broken or scuffed, or torn years earlier, but it carried on and, like a three-legged dog, you loved it all the more for its imperfection. My car has many breaks, scuffs and tears, but the current problem is a failed NCT. It’s putting a strain on our relationship and my eyes have started to wander. It’s tearing me apart. This separation anxiety is idiotic. The 1997 Corolla is hardly sentient. But what will happen if cars become automated and drive themselves?