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Your life savings seem set to disappear into some global black hole, and the high street Bungling Bank is about to merge with the local butchers – so you’d be right in thinking that things aren’t too clever down your local car showroom.

Even so, I heard from a friend of mine who works at such a place that they’d managed to shift sixteen new cars last month, which he thought was pretty decent considering the present circumstances.

I just spent a truly splendid day at a car auction. This was a proper Brit one with surly blokes and exhaust smoke and sarnies and not remotely like the cabaret show that Editor Hallett recently attended.

Actually, a British Car Auction Top Marques sale is not remotely downmarket and it’s the best entertainment anyone who loves great value posh cars, can legally have.

In case you haven’t been paying attention I have recently suffered a sort of mid-life madness. Sadly it didn’t involve a Ronnie Wood style ‘lost week’ with a Russian cocktail waitress, it’s rather more serious than that. I actually gave away a car.

Not just any car either, but German one from the era when they used to build them properly. My lovely BMW (the ‘E34’ generation for the nomenclature anoraks out there), a 525iA SE to be even more precise.

First of all I would like to thank all of you for posting your super clever suggestions for getting my backside into an interesting seven-seater.

Grateful as I am for the input – I must confess to having completely ignored it. Which is why I’m now the proud owner of a 112,000 mile Volvo V70, 2000 on the “W” and powered by the 2.4-litre petrol engine.

It does fulfil the basic criteria of seating seven, although with two of those rear-facing pop-up seats in the boot.

If you’re calling about the car, it’s already gone. Selling my 2001 Seat Toledo TDI has delivered a fascinating insight into the dynamics of the modern car market. Main dealers might be filled with tumbleweed and racks of yellowing brochures, but demand for sub-£3000 diesels invokes an analogy concerning hot cakes.

Indeed, despite 93,000 miles and a reasonable crop of stone chips, my Toledo sold to the first punter to come and see it – for just £150 less than the keen price I was asking for it. I’m not surprised: soaring fuel prices mean that a realistic 48mpg is hugely compelling at the bottom end of the market.

I think that I’m about to do something rather distasteful and quite painful. No, I won’t be joining Sir Max for one of his weekly dungeon sessions – this is far worse. You see, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have to go out and buy myself a seven-seater. My actual circumstances haven’t changed – Mrs. R isn’t in the family way again – but for all kinds of reasons my clan needs a minibus.