COME the end of it all, when your number is finally called and you take a few moments to reflect upon your life, how many things will you honestly say that you have truly loved? Your family, perhaps, and the person that you settled down with to start a new posse of your own. Add to the list a few friends, a pet and a home. Otherwise, you will probably find that there aren't too many things that you really cherished – except, maybe, for a car. Although I would include Fawlty Towers, and Cadbury's Twirls.

This weekend, we said farewell to the family vehicle that has served us for what has felt like an eternity. After fourteen years of gallantly tackling the challenging terrain that is the road network of Ireland, the chinks were starting to show in the old wagon's armour. And with clan numbers on the increase, we decided it was time to get something with a bit more space.

That's not to say that the kleptomaniacs out there should be getting their Jockey Y-Fronts in a twist at the thought of a new machine rolling its way into the driveway. The latest acquisition is merely a younger model of its mid-nineties born counterpart. In fact it has already been around for three World Cups – hardly what you would describe as straight from the factory floor.

But it got me thinking about the Nissan Almera that we are moving on from – and our adventures together down through the years. From a middle-ofthe-night fuel crisis in the wilds of Monaghan, to being chased down the M4 by some peeved off policemen – it has some tales to tell.

It has been a teacher too. Like the night when I came out of Temple Bar and it was missing. I took a walk, cursing the thief out there with strange motoring taste until I found it, clamped, a mile further down the road. That's when I learned that you cannot park within 15 metres of a pedestrian crossing.

For a few months I drove with my knees holding up my chin, as a wrangled two-euro coin wedged the driver's seat into a position of permanency. It also meant that nobody else could drive it, unless they had my-sized legs.

The contents of the boot was always a source of entertainment around the dinner table. There were a number of occasions when I thought it had seen its day, leaving a moribund feeling in the air on one particular Christmas Eve, only for it to be carted off to a garage by a tow truck and to be resurrected within days - better than ever. If cats have nine lives, then this car has ninety.

H ow interesting it would be if I could have a group photo of every passenger that the machine has carried during its time with us. Just to jog the memories of faces and places; of events that might have slipped my mind.

As I cleaned out its contents for the last time on Thursday night, nostalgia overcame. And I decided that it's true – cars can cruise their ways into your heart. Though I won't miss putting my hands in under the seat and searching for coins to feed the meter, and hoping that they wouldn't touch against anything furry.

All that's left to do now is thank the old chestnut for the memories, and hope that its new owner has just as much of a blast.

WHO HAS KILLED THE VIDEO STAR?

Listening to the radio the other day, it occurred to me that the era of the music video is swiftly winding towards an end. Artists may still record movable pictures to accompany their latest releases and you can access them on some of the music channels, should you have satellite TV. But they are relatively unimaginative projects compared to the work of their predecessors.

Instead, we must pine for the days of Top of the Pops and the Chart Show, and though a lot of the hype back then was about hearing the latest seveninch, the new video was just as eagerly anticipated. Michael Jackson realised that early on, and made such groundbreaking visuals that they covered it up when his songs weren't really up to scratch.

Nowadays the music videos are mostly about sexual impact. Cheryl Cole in a tight pair of leathers for example, or Kylie being man-handled and tossed about in the air by a drove of semi-clad beings, while they busily cavort below. Usually bland, but pretty faces. In another 20 years people will probably still be talking about how Thriller was the best of them all – a shame really, when there must be plenty more boundaries of the mind out there, just waiting to be pushed.

- SHEA TOMKINS