My mum’s gold Metro.

My mum had this gold Metro when I was little. The woman who had it before her was a little bit deaf, so the indicators used to buzz when they were switched on. This was like the most tortuous tinnitus you can imagine, but I did love that car.

The great thing about being a child in your parents’ car is that the back is your own domain. I used to sit on the left – I still do, actually. It’s my favoured seat. The floor was elaborately festooned with my possessions – books, colouring books, crayons. All of the crap and detritus that kids amass after journey after journey.

I remember once I had a can of Coke in the back of the Metro – I can’t even imagine why I might have had a can of Coke, this can only have signalled a big occasion like a birthday, or something dying – and I didn’t finish it all.

So this half-finished can of Coke somehow contrived to dump its contents in the cubby built into the rear passenger armrest in the side of the car’s cabin. Lego men were rendered sticky and immobile, drowned in syrupy ignominy. It’s no fun being a Lego man.

That cubby was sticky for ages – these things happen when you have your own domain – and dried Coke can get everywhere. But that gold Metro took such batterings in its stride, much to its credit. I did love that car.