One of my longest and most straight forward relationships has ended. Abruptly. Dramatically. Reluctantly. Fourteen years I was faithful and true. It was a two-way street. We never cheated on each other. It never got boring. Rarely predictable, easy on the eye, he was reliable, low maintenance and always there in a crisis. There will never be another one like him.

Yes, dear Reader, as I write this, my beloved sports car is being stripped down for parts and crushed into the size of an air-fryer. All done through a Company who I loathe because the inane tune for its TV advert gets stuck in your ear. Oh, the injustice. The tears at parting. The guilt I felt leaving that sleek sliver two door turbo in a scruffy parking lot for some stranger to fiddle with.

Would they appreciate the beauty of the mechanism that lifted off the roof, folded it into the boot, whilst simultaneously repositioning the windows? Never. To me it was balletic, like the opening of Swan Lake. Would they know where the  secret James Bond-like compartment was in the dashboard? Unlikely.

The decision to part ways went against every bone in my body. I prefer to keep hold of stuff and avoid buying new. It was a classic in line with the maxim of style over practicality every time. It was fun to drive. And with the price of second hard cars now, a  similar like for like replacement is out of the question.

 ‘It’s the end of an era’, someone said. That made it worse. But all my women friends unanimously agreed, it’s never just a car; just a means of going A to B. It becomes part of your identity. It represents freedom and independence. It’s a safe space to sing falsetto with the radio; somewhere to hide your clothes shopping until you can smuggle the bags inside, undetected.

 It’s also a memory box containing some of your most vivid and dramatic recollections. For a split second, I can often imagine my beloved father, RIP, in the passenger seat next to me.  Unflappable and fearless, he would always sit with one hand on the dashboard, as if a seat-belt wasn’t enough.  Usually calm and mild mannered, crystal clear I can hear his unforgettable words: “For Christ’s sake babe, slow down.”

There’s the delightful car memory of multiple dogs crammed in the footwell (fully secured Officer).  Or flashbacks to the dachshunds perched at the open window, stretched to full sausage, barking at horses, motorbikes and articulated lorries. Reliving the joy from nearly running over a mansplainer. On seeing it was a woman driving, he chose not to move out of the way…

True, I didn’t always take good care of Klaus. I remember leaping out of bed one morning at 4am, woken by a thunderstorm and the realisation I had left the roof down. It took three beach towels and a hair dryer on an extension but four months later the smell of damp leather finally lifted.

Then there were the all too regular sounds of crushed metal. I can still hear that unique noise. You never forget your first collision with a parking post… with a wheelie bin…with a tree. I blame those German engineers. It was their fault reverse gear was so fast!

Alas all good things come to an end. Recently, there were too many calls to the AA. Potholes killed the suspension. Low to the ground began to feel in the ground. Who wants to hurtle along the A303 feeling like you’re in a go-kart. And whilst I always loved the acceleration and overtaking a BMW, driving off with no brakes, was a thrill too far.

Don’t rush to buy another has been good advice. Reflect and pause they counsel. Consider for a while something more age appropriate. Something electric. Something practical and within budget.

Nah. It’s never just a car.