I ONCE had a car. It seems a long time ago now but I still remember the time with some affection.

It was only a small car, but it was my own and while I never gave it a name, as some people I know do, we had established a certain bond whereby I spent a small fortune keeping it on the road and filling it with the juice it loved and in return it took me where I wanted to go.

When my son turned 18 I was full of dread because 18-year- olds are renowned the world over for wanting to jump in the nearest car and race up and down Exmouth seafront on a Sunday.

But, as good fortune would have it, my son showed no real interest in cars — particularly my small yellow one.

Instead, he went off to university, embraced the life of the penniless student and professed a deep and real commitment to public transport. I congratulated him on his choice with a deep sigh of relief.

And then my daughter hit 18.

In a perfect world, young women would learn embroidery and kitchen skills at their mother's knee. But my daughter wanted to drive and she wanted me to teach her.

I spent many a harrowing hour on the outer by-pass, which had never seemed so hair-raising before, pretending to be calm and relaxed while my happy, little girl cheerfully cut-up 40-tonne killer trucks driven by burly, balding men with more tattoos than skin. She just waved at them and they waved back, all smiles. She passed her test and that was that — goodbye car.

I still filled it up with petrol, paid for the insurance, road tax and MoT, and had the occasional spare part fitted. I just didn't get to drive it very much.

The transfer in ownership was straightforward — she simply referred to it as hers. She would tell her friends: "I'll pick you up in my car," "We can go in my car, " "If you are stuck, I'll come round in my car."

There was now a big gap in my life, the physical manifestation being a big gap outside the house where the car use to be.

I would stand at the window looking at that gap, remembering the good old days when the car that used to be mine was parked there, ready to take me anywhere I wanted to go. I never really went anywhere, but it was always there if I needed it.

Now it wasn't. What would happen if I suddenly received an urgent phone call to go to somewhere a long way away? That call has yet to come — but it might, and what would I do, catch a bus?

I was stranded, beached. Life would pass me by, a new generation was out and about while I was consigned to mere memories of the open road that had brought me great adventures over new horizons. Actually, that's a load of old rubbish because, now I think about it, I only ever used the car for work and the weekly run to Tesco's — whereas my daughter uses the thing to have fun, meet people and do things.

I am probably better off without it and now the mornings are a bit lighter I think I will start walking to work. I shall be fitter and be able to stroll confidently towards those aforementioned new horizons.

I suppose in many ways my daughter may have done me a favour. And she does still let me drive it to the garage to fill it up with petrol.