Jeremy Clarkson would weep
I'm not afraid to show my feminine side. So I don't mind admitting that, when it comes to cars, I have a tendency to be a bit girly.
For example, last August I splashed out on a very nice BMW convertible (it came with a free mid-life crisis thrown in) but some eight months later I still can't tell you what size the engine is or the precise model specification.
And don't even bother to ask me what the registration is. . .
Jeremy Clarkson and the Top Gear team would surely tut-tut disapprovingly at such a confession, but the truth is a car's colour and comfort-factor are far more important to me than performance.
And all I know is that my Beamer (that's what we BMW drivers call them) is silver and has rather luxurious red leather upholstery.
And when it's sunny enough to have the top down (about three times a year) it looks the bee's knees.
One thing I do know for sure though . . . on no part of my car does the word 'Taxi' appear. I just wish I could convey that message to my children.
My 17-year-old, in particular, seems to be allergic to public transport. He's always complaining that the buses don't run on time.
Quite how he's able to make such an observation without having ever waited at a bus stop puzzles me greatly.
All too often, I give in to his constant whining. But not any more. Things are going to change.
After all, just because I drive a soft top doesn't mean I have to be a soft touch, does it?
I've told him that if and when he gets his finger out and either (a) secures gainful employment or (b) comes up with a life plan that doesn't involve moping around the house like a zombie, then I might - just might - make the occasional journey out of my way to make his life easier.
It has become something of a stand off between us. Let battle commence . . .