POET and writer Ian McMillan is not the biggest fan of cars, in fact he doesnt even own one. The 57-year-old, known as the Bard of Barnsley, still lives in his birthplace. On October 24 he will be presenting Talking Myself Home at The Witham, Barnard Castle. The show starts at 7.45pm and for more details and tickets contact 01833-631107 or visit www.thewitham.org.uk

I VIVIDLY remember the car we had when we were little; it was a blue Zephyr 6 with the registration number UHE 8 and my dad would trundle it along very slowly on Sunday afternoon drives, rarely getting out third gear as my mam checked her face in the vanity mirror (something we thought was very sophisticated) and reapplied her lipstick.

My brother would be sitting on the back seat on the Daily Mirror because he believed it would prevent car sickness. And sometimes it did.

Towards the end of its life the car began to fall to pieces and my dad held on to it longer than he should have; I seem to remember that the door was held on with string, and that my dad had to untie it to let my mother out. This can't be true, can it? Maybe it can.

My Uncle Charlie had a green Ford Anglia, registration number 4095 HE and, unlike my dad, he drove it quickly. He couldn't read so he found following signs or reading maps difficult so (and this also sounds made up, but it's true) he used to try to drive backwards as often as he could so that, as he said, he could see where he'd been.

Amazingly, he never had any accidents, although there was a close scrape in Weston Super Mare when his flat cap slipped over his face.

Maybe it was because of my dad and my Uncle Charlie, but I never really wanted to learn to drive.

At the age of seventeen, because my mates were all getting licences, I did too, and I had a couple of lessons with a bloke who was more nervous than me.

I drove a few yards down my street until he told me to stop outside a chapel. I won't be a minute, he said, and he disappeared into the holy place.

After five minutes I went to look for him, leaving the car engine running, and I found him standing from the pulpit mumbling from the bible. It turned out he'd double-booked my driving lesson with his portion of a 24-hour bible reading.

I left the chapel and went to the bus stop, deciding that driving wasn't for me.

My dad tying the doors on with string; Uncle Charlie speeding backwards through South Yorkshire mining villages, and an instructor muttering Ezekiel in a damp chapel: that's why I haven't got a car.