Lady P. and I have just exchanged our old car for a brand spanking new one. I have to admit to the fact that I don't do a lot of driving these days because my good lady wife takes it upon herself to grab the wheel before I have any say in the matter. The only trouble is, like most women, she isn't a very good driver and lacks the spatial awareness the majority of males naturally possess.

When Lady P. and I decided it was time to purchase a new set of wheels, we trawled the internet in order to decide upon the make and model. As a man, I was interested in fuel economy and whether or not the car would hold its value when the time comes to trade it in. Unsurprisingly, owing to the female type, my wife seemed merely interested in the colour of our new car, its CD player and whether or not her sister would approve.

I am a practical man. I think stoically and without emotion. My testosterone levels ensure that I make the right decisions at exactly the right times. My mind is not clouded by colours, radio wavelengths, air fresheners, cuddly toys in the back seat, approval from siblings, alloy wheels, retractable aerials or tinted windows. Speaking of tinted windows, I sometimes wonder if Lady P. sees her whole life through the rose variety.

Ergo, I deemed it fitting that my wife make the final decision regarding our new mode of transport. As a good husband who knows what's good for him, I took a backseat and let her choose.

Ulimately, her verdict was a black Vauxhall Corsa. I owned a Vauxhall back in the Cavalier days. It proved to be a decent carriage and pretty economical, so my wife's decision didn't have me worrying too much. In fact, I was quite relieved she didn't plump for a Mazda or something equally as Japanese because I've never really got over watching Alec Guinness suffer in Bridge On The River Kwai. Incidentally, when I brought that film home to watch, Lady P. fell asleep halfway through. Well, there's no accounting for taste.

I digress. To cut a would be very long blog short, we duly arrived to pick up our new car yesterday morning. After waiting half an hour in the Vauxhall showroom, we were eventually taken to our new car. There she sat, all new, black and shiny. She had 7-miles on the clock and, according to the Vauxhall guy, there was no need to run her in. The car I mean, not my wife. Let's face it, I'd rather run my wife down than run her in, already. Take my wife ... please.

Quick as a flash after receiving the keys, a crafty kiss and rather lacklustre bunch of flowers - all from the car salesman, I might add - Lady P. leapt into the driving seat faster than I could say let's agree to differ. She was definitely locked, loaded and ready to go.

The real trouble started when my better half couldn't work out where first gear was. After rolling back a couple of times - we were on a slope and reversing dangerously close to a collision with another brand spanking, virgin, car - I had to take masculine control. Wrenching her hand away from the gearstick and reminding her that the handbrake isn't just something you rest your hand on when you've finished texting your mates, we eventually kangarood it on to the open road.

With that unmistakable new car aroma blended with my unique and quite distinctive smell of absolute fear, we headed off towards Dartford and the bank. I have to say that when we arrived at Dartford, even I was relieved to note that I felt safer in Dartford Town Centre than alone with my wife in our new car. Though I have to admit, Dartford still stinks more than Lady P. drives.

I think my next blog will be about our visit to Dartford and how my wife and I promised one another never to visit that awful place again - especially Argos and its woeful customers.