My first car was an olive green lump of personality.
Beige interior. Sticky patch on the back seat that refused to leave. Mysterious, permanent and slightly worrying.
The radio worked only if you tapped it on just the right corner like you were waking up an old friend.
It wasn’t pretty. But it was mine.
It took me to work. It carried me to nights out. It managed an emergency dash to A&E when my brother fell out of a tree.
It rattled, it struggled, it stalled. But it showed up. And at eighteen, so did I.
I Passed First Time
My then-boyfriend and his dad chose the car for me.
They found a solid old thing with “a good engine.” And they weren’t wrong.
Still, I hated the colour. It looked like something between damp moss and old army trousers.
Third gear was its own adventure.
The car I’d learned to drive in had smooth transitions. This one? It coughed, clunked, and resisted—especially on hills.
My boyfriend took me out to practice. He yelled when I didn’t brake soon enough.
We were heading toward a stop line, and I remember gripping the steering wheel, hearing him shout, and thinking: Why is this scarier than the actual driving test?
Memoir Prompt
Write about your first car—or your family’s car growing up.
What did it look like? What did it smell like? What memories does it carry?
Use These Journal Questions to Explore:
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What journeys did the car witness—big or small?
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Who drove it most often, and how did you feel in the passenger seat?
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Did the car have any quirks? A broken window? A heater that only worked in summer?
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Was it your ticket to freedom? Or just a noisy box that got you where you had to go?
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How did it shape your coming of age—or your sense of family?
The Family Car as a Time Capsule
The family car often plays a starring role in the backdrop of childhood.
From seaside holidays to early morning school runs, it holds a hundred stories you may not even realise are there.
Was it a boxy estate? A dented hatchback? A practical van filled with takeaway wrappers and wellies?
Describe the colour, the feel of the seats, the way the engine sounded when it started—or didn’t.
Sometimes these cars were just vehicles.
Sometimes, they were freedom.
Sometimes, they were escape.
Sometimes, they were home.
Your Turn
Let your memory take the wheel.
Write it out. The stickiness, the shouting, the near misses, the music, the quiet.
You might find that what you’re really writing about… isn’t the car at all.
