They say that the car you choose to drive says a lot about your personality. If that is true, I am obviously some type of deranged weirdo, because every single person that sees my car says exactly the same thing: “THAT thing is your car ?”.

Now before I go any further, let me explain that I love my car and plan to keep it for the rest of my life if I can, but it’s already as old as I am, and to be frank it looks like shit.

I’m not kidding. It’s painted this hideous dark blue colour (except for one door, which is light blue). It’s huge and weighs about 2 tonnes. It has a big smash in the side (which predates me). Only the passenger side door opens so you have to crawl over people to get out. It has green carpet, a brown floor, a white (rusty) roof, a silver bullbar and a tartan seat cover.

The top flies off the gear lever at inconvenient moments, the drivers window keeps dropping into the door cavity, and it’s so noisy inside you can’t hear yourself think, let alone speak to anyone.

It has no aerial, radio, air conditioning, power steering, cruise control, electric windows, interior lights, air bags, door handles, window seals, air vents, temperature gauge, trip meter or interior linings. It’s boiling in summer and freezing in winter and it’s perpetually full of sand and dog hair.

You have to start it by simultaneously pushing the ‘start’ button with one hand, turning the key with the other, and holding the gear lever to one side with your foot (no, I have no idea why it works but if you don’t do it, it won’t start).

My husband hates it and refuses to take it anywhere that someone might ‘see’ him in it. It is also possibly the most recognisable vehicle on earth, so obviously going anywhere in private or driving like a dick (should one want to) are totally out of the question.

Which I suppose begs the question ... why do I drive the bloody thing ?

There’s just no explaining my love for Iris, so named for her bright blue hue and old lady ‘cantankerism’. She’s big and comfortable and you can throw dogs and friends and surfboards and camping stuff in her and still have space to stretch out. I loved ‘her’ the moment I saw her and I have never wavered. 

I should explain that she also has a brand new 2-litre engine (that uses unleaded fuel and rivals vehicles currently produced for emission control) which is regularly serviced by a manufacturer licensed mechanic, plus a brand new gearbox, also regularly maintained.

But nobody can SEE that part.

So, if someone does judge me on my car, they’re getting the message that I’m dirty, untidy, unruly, mismatched, unreliable, unpredictable, loud, obvious, funny looking, enormous, environmentally ignorant, accident prone and temperamental.

(And that’s not fair, cause they’d only be half right)

Iris has gone beyond being a car to me and become some kind of symbol about the truth not always being immediately obvious about anything at all. She proudly exists in this world of superficial beauty, and I am proud to share that with her. What she has inside is what really counts, and, as in life, good looks have nothing on how she makes me feel.

Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Iris the Volkswagen Kombi: