SOME things in life are certain. For example, the onset of warmer weather obviously indicates that summer is finally here, along with the fact that people are wearing woefully ill-fitting clothes, ignoring warnings about sunburn and keeping their roofs up on their sexy little sports cars.

It may well be summertime and the weather may well be jolly fine (and the living easy), but I beg someone to explain to me, WHY, when someone has shelled out their hard-earned cash on a beautiful (or even not that beautiful) convertible, would they not get their top down once the sun shines? Surely that is the whole point of them?

Apart from the fact that it’s nice to feel the wind in your hair and the sun on your face, a sunny blue sky day is the perfect excuse for posing in your shades with a cool CD playing. I should know – I did it for years in my own sports car (even when it wasn’t that warm if I am honest!) It just grieves me when I see these shiny little numbers whizzing around our villages and towns on a glorious day with their tops up.

If the driver is a girl I have put this down to the fact that the windswept look might not be quite the thing for the boardroom, but just take your GHD (good hair day) with you or wear a headscarf and big sunglasses so you look like a Fifties film star.

I wouldn’t mind if it was a complicated and technical procedure to put the top down, but it’s all at the push of a button these days.

Back in the day when I drove a 1968 MGB Roadster, putting the roof down was a major operation involving nasty pinchy clips that broke my nails more than once.

By the time all that been accomplished it was inevitably threatening to rain but that was the fun of it.

Then there was the funny cover thing that my bossy ex-husband insisted I always used. In fact it was such a palaver, he often refused to let me have the roof down at all. So, when on my own, I would stop at the merest hint of blue sky and get the roof off. Forget that old rule about enough blue sky to make a pair of sailor’s trousers – I was happy with enough to make a thong.

Any excuse to drive topless and I was happy!

I see dozens of beautiful, sleek and glamorous examples on my travels (and some truly hideous ones such as Astras...why would you bother?) and each time I see one with the roof up on a beautiful day I just feel like shouting at the driver.

So be warned: if you see a mad woman approaching you in a rather grubby silver Ford Focus screaming at you to take your top off, it’s not a chat-up line to check out your six pack, but merely an instruction.

Kev Dyer will return soon, having had an oil change and new tyres.