It was an ignominious start to the week for poor Pearl, her pride severely dented by being carted off on the back of a lorry, in full view of the neighbours, for urgent hospital attention.

Pearl, by the way, is our 11-year-old Volvo C70, so called for the rather obvious reason that she is pearl blue. Colour often comes into the nomenclature we apply to our cars, a childish habit I know, but harmless enough.

The Rover Vitesse of the 1990s was Bess, she being black; and before that – our previous convertible – was Ben. This was slightly more imaginative, derived from Anthony Wedgwood Benn, this Citroen 2CV being Wedgwood blue.

As twee in its way was my mention of ‘hospital’ treatment. In defence, I should say that the medical analogy was introduced by Waylands Volvo, of Cumnor Hill, who preceded the repairs with a videoed ‘health check’.

That Pearl was in need of such examination had become obvious the previous day as I drove back from an overnight visit to friends in Gloucestershire. Climbing the hill out of Bibury, I was surprised by the sudden appearance of a warning on the dashboard screen: “Power system service urgent.”

There was no obvious problem in driving the car, however, so I continued on my way – the warning still showing – and reached home without incident.

Internet investigation by Rosemarie revealed, in the wording of the message, that the problem lay with the charging of the battery and was probably caused by a faulty alternator. Might this explain the flat battery we had in February, when Volvo Assistance fixed things (if clearly not permanently)? It seemed likely.

This time I went straight to Waylands, but was told that a call to Assistance was the way to proceed. This done, I learned that an engineer was on the way. In fact he wasn’t, since a fault of this sort was judged too serious to be remedied in a roadside repair.

Nobody told me, though, and I was surprised an hour later when the rescue lorry lumbered into view instead of the van I expected.

Off went Pearl and later in the day came that videoed health check in which a mechanic called Luke guided me on a fascinating journey through parts of the car’s underside utterly unfamiliar to me. As we roamed among brushes, springs and exhaust system, I was put in mind of one of Jacques Cousteau’s shipwreck explorations. Great white up ahead!

Nothing as alarming, thank heavens, except in the cost of repairing the faults uncovered which, with the alternator – yes, that had bust – sent the bill significantly north of a grand.

Twenty-first century motoring sure is pricey. Not too long back a failed light bulb set us back £700, as the whole unit – with indicators, sidelights, the lot – had to be replaced. We now dread the same problem – the sealed unit becoming unsealed – on the other side.

How very different it was in my early days on the road when self-help was possible and a leaky radiator could be plugged with a handful of Quaker porridge oats and a nylon stocking was an acceptable substitute for a broken fan belt. OK, you’ve heard this before but it’s really what happened with my 1964 Morris Minor Traveller, over nearly 10 years.

My first experience behind the wheel came back to me last week on the very day of Pearl’s discomfiture. A photograph in The Times (see above) showed a red Hillman Imp identical to the driving school car in which my lessons began exactly 50 years ago. I was amused to see the vehicle – which was taking pat in a North Berwick Rotary Club tour – described as a ‘classic’.

It was in another red Imp that my first journey to Oxford was made shortly before. The driver was one of my schoolmasters, a gentleman of gangling frame who was capable – to the alarm of his passengers – of steering with his knees.

This was a particularly useful facility on exploratory visits to out-of-the-way churches and architectural curiosities as it freed up his hands to manipulate the Ordnance Survey maps always required on our peregrinations.

Though, as I say, it is half a century ago, I can still remember precisely what it was like to have control of the Imp, the lightest touch required on the steering wheel on account of all the weight of the engine behind you.

Actually, it is a curious fact that the ‘feel’ of the various cars I have driven, for however, short a time, can always be conjured up. Friends tell me they find the same.

Included in this is the imprecise movement between the fingers of the column gear change on my 1959 Hillman Minx. This facility permitted bench seating in the front, sufficient for three people.

With my 1958 Ford Anglia I can experience again the alarming ‘play’ on the steering wheel and the inefficiency of pneumatically operated windscreen wipers that conked out when you accelerated hard. But at least it had a heater, unlike my best mate’s Ford Popular. Not freezing was an ‘optional extra’, offered in the deluxe version only.