Slán abhaile. . .

I'm in a bit of a quandary. The recent arrival of my son Turbo - so-named because he came out like a rocket - has got me thinking about the relationship between my love for my brood and my love for my ancient car. Said car, the Duchess, has no ABS, no airbags, no nada. It's like driving around in a metal and glass box. Admittedly, it's all steel, so it's fairly sturdy. But then, so was the Titanic.

So this is the moral dilemma that has my synapses all a-tizzy: Am I compromising the safety of my children by driving them around in a 32-year-old car that has all the safety technology of a sliced pan? The head would have to say yes. The heart is less easily swayed.

I've been dwelling on this conundrum ever since a chap I know asked me some months ago for advice on what car he should buy. "I know nothing about cars. 'Tis a well-known fact," I replied. "But if you really want my opinion, I say buy a classic. Minimal tax, no depreciation and, best of all, they've got soul."

"But I've got a child," he sniffed, fixing me with the kind of malevolent stare one reserves for people found guilty in court of systematically beating their kids.

"I'd never drive my child around in a car that didn't have airbags and all those other doodahs. It's not safe," said he smugly, oblivious to the steam coming from my ears and the creak of my sinews as they restrained me from unleashing my furious anger upon him.

"Ah, but is that not because you're about as good at driving as fridges are at synchronised swimming?" retorted I. That put him back in his box.

But I see his point. I also see my own, which is that the knowledge of not having a safety net has made me a far more alert, more defensive and, dare I say it, better driver.

Even without my offspring inside, I drive the Duchess like she's made of eggshells.

I also maintain her fastidiously, like my life depends on it. Which, now that I think about it, it does.

That said, no matter how careful I am, there's nothing I can do to stop some silly witch broadsiding me in her SUV as she applies her mascara. They'll be the death of us all, that lot.

And then there's the fact I love the old girl.

I'm not alone. My two-year-old daughter, Reduced Emissions, loves her too. In fact, her first four-word sentence was, and you may strike me down with an epileptic octopus if I lie: "I like Dada car." The little harridan then spoiled it all by pointing at a 12-year-old rusting hulk of a Daihatsu Charade and saying "I like blue car." But we'll not mention that.

She loves the Duchess for the very fact that it's like sitting in a goldfish bowl. There's no chubby pillars stuffed with airbags to obscure her view. Which makes her feel safer. Oh, the irony.

I suppose, to be on the safe side, I could always just wrap my children up in sterilised cotton wool, lock them in an oxygen tank and feed them only laboratory-grown food until they're 18 and old enough to run off with a biker gang.

I'm still undecided. This requires further thought.

The cynics among you may be thinking my dilemma is all just a ruse, a moral stick to wave at Mrs Emissions when she wants me to ferry the chisellers around.

I admit it has occurred to me that if I were to bar my kids from my car, citing safety concerns, I'd be able to enjoy the happy coincidence of not having her infected with the pungent aromas emanating from their assorted childhood emissions. (My daughter is a master of projectile puking - I've seen her hit a moving target from 10 paces. I've no reason to believe her brother won't follow in her sloshy footprints.)

But, as I said, that's just cynical talk. Nothing could be further from my mind.