AFTER 20 years of loyal service The Mother has finally come to the conclusion that it’s time to consign her ancient Jag to the great multi storey in the sky.

“But she still drives like a dream, there’s not a mark on the bodywork and there’s hardly any miles on the clock for a car like this,” was The Mother’s stock reply to put us firmly in our places whenever we tentatively raised the issue of a new car.

“I know all these things but the car is still ancient and things could start going wrong with her,” said my sister trying to put over her point.

“I’m ancient and things could start going wrong with me. Do you want to put me on the scrap heap as well,” asked The Mother steadfast in her loyalty to her aged vehicle.

“We just worry that you could be out one day and something could go wrong and we’d have the whole Plas Derwen Posse stranded in an M&S car park somewhere,” I replied.

“My car is lovely and I’m not changing it,” she answered shutting down any further debate.

Weeks later as we sat down for dinner The Mother drew a long breath.

Expecting that her afternoon on the piano with the Baptist hymnal had led to an unannounced pre-dinner Grace we all put our knives and forks down mid mouthful.

“I’ve decided it’s time I started to look for a new car,” she announced.

My sister and I looked at each other in shock.

“What’s brought this on?” asked the housemate plunging headlong where angels fear to tread.

“I’ve thought a lot about what you’ve all been saying and I can see the sense in it and I know the car is getting older and I do have the odd warning light come on which nobody can account for and I know there’s always the chance she could just pack in… so I’m going to take the plunge.”

The next weekend the housemate and I packed The Mother into the car for a visit to some local garages.

“Is there someone we can talk to about some cars?” I asked the salesman after we’d had an initial wander.

“Yes…you can talk to myself,” he replied, immediately utilising my pet hate - the ubiquitous and utterly redundant ‘self’.

“Is the car for yourself?” he asked, compounding his sin.

“No. It’s for herself,” I replied while the housemate glared at me.

As we set off on the test drive The Mother sniffed ominously. “It’s a lovely car, but I don’t like the smell of it,” she proclaimed.

Picking up my phone I dialled my sister. “That’s it. I’m out. I’m sticking to garden centres and M&S...It’s over to you and the brother-in-law-to-be to handle car shopping. You’re better at it, you know what you’re talking about….”

“And you don’t have a hissy fit if someone says ‘myself’…” chipped in the housemate rolling her eyes from the backseat.

Later that night as I lay in a darkened room with a lavender compress over my eyes trying to recover from the stress of the outing my phone pinged with text from my sister.

“I’ve been searching for cars for The Mother. She’s quite specific in what she wants isn’t she...how do you fancy a trip to Slough on Saturday to see a serious contender? We can take the walkie talkies in case she buys it and we have to drive it home!”