People say that the type of car you drive says a lot about you. I don’t think that’s necessarily true, but there are a lot of people who think that driving a flash car makes them more important.

There’s one guy I know who drives a big high-performance horse-powered muscle model straight from Detroit. Looking at the car, you’d think he was a hard-driven genius. Given his personality, he should be driving a tipper truck — something with a stiff seat to protect what little backbone still exists.

They say the man who owns IKEA drives a really old Volvo, one that’s decades old. I wonder if it’s put together with a key and some of those screws that only come with a flat-packed birch-veneer desk.

My first car was a 1968 Mini that was a decade old when I bought it. If you closed the doors too hard, the window frame would come loose. The ignition key was so worn you could turn it with a penny, so there was a secret flip switch under the driver’s seat to thwart any thief. The insurance cost more than the car, so maybe it would have been a blessing if a thief did take it. I drove it for a couple of years in university, and used to give Roddy Doyle, the writer, an occasional lift home to the north side of Dublin. He used to grind his teeth. The gear box just used to grind. It fell out one rainy Friday evening rush hour in the middle of the city. That was the end of that, but I still look at an old Mini with fond memories.

The next car was a 1972 Fiat in green, the same model that became Ladas in eastern Europe or are now taxis in Cairo. I sold that car in three pieces — the engine, the body and the tyres.

Months later, a couple of detectives came to my house in a very serious and officious way. I was ominously brought in for questioning, sitting in the back of a squad car with a detective who looked as if he would — and had — come out the better of any scrap. The registration plate on the Fiat had been used on an Audi that was the getaway car for Irish Republican Army terrorists when they hit a bank. Thankfully, the records backed up my story and my innocence.

Another time I had a big old Citroen that floated like a boat. There was a level between the passenger seats and you could choose how hard or soft you wanted to drive. It handled like a boat too, and went for 0 to 60 in four hours!

Only twice have I ever bought a new car. One was a Jeep in Canada and was part of a deal for a newspaper chain I was working there. The best thing was that it came with a petrol card. I think I used up the annual allowance in four months.

Another was a little Golf, sporty, top of the range. I admit to driving 180kms per hour in it one night. I was at work and received a very urgent message that my dog had died, and was lying in the backyard. She was that once-in-a-lifetime pet, and was being treated for cancer. I raced home — and I mean raced — in floods of tears.

I was expecting to have to make arrangements with the vet for cremation etc. But when I pulled in, Bear was there to greet me — her little furry face, drooling a hello. She was unconscious but not dead. Sadly, that meant that a few weeks later, I had to make that most awful decision for that last ride in the car to the vets.

If I had spent the money on a car rather than on Bear’s chemotherapy, I probably would have driven a nice car. As it was, the care was priceless. And the memories too.