MY colleague's car broke down last week. It happened very close to her home, forcing her to pay extra to her breakdown company.

Her predicament took me back to the days when, with my old car, I could barely make a journey without a problem developing. “We can't go anywhere without help from Green Flag,” my daughter - then aged about ten - once commented after we were rescued a mile from home.

That time it happened in a village, so my husband was able to take the children home on the bus. But nine times out of ten, my car would develop a fault in the inconvenient or dangerous places.

The worst, late at night after work, on the A 64 in the middle of Leeds, when, as I waited on a side road for help to arrive, a group of dodgy-looking youths arranged a mattress, a broken chair and other bits and pieces around a lamp post close to my car and set fire to it. It was a terrifying moment, reminiscent of the opening chapter of The Bonfire of the Vanities.

“Get in the cab, we don't want to hang around here for longer than we have to,” said the man who bravely drove to my rescue from near-certain death.

Other worst-nightmare places I've broken down include under the bridge on Stanningley Bypass and on the notoriously steep Blue Bank in North Yorkshire, where the locals in Sleights were as friendly and helpful as a Guatemalan street gang.

I got sick of watching other motorists carefully manoeuvring around my car at the roadside, straining to see what was wrong.

Each time it reinforced the importance of belonging to a breakdown organisation.

Yet when I was young, I don't think anyone was a member. In those days, cars were simpler machines, mechanical rather than electronic. Most people could tinker about under the bonnet and fix problems. My dad's friends used to stress the importance of carrying a pair of tights for emergencies, should the fan belt decide to pack up. This advice obviously struck a chord with me as I have a pair, and a large elastic band, in the glove box - despite the fact that I don't know where my car's fan belt is, or, even, if 21st century cars still have them.

Thankfully, since swapping my rust-bucket car for a newer model four years ago I haven't needed to ring for help. Reaching destinations without smoke billowing from the engine is still a novelty to me and I can't help wondering how long I've got - my car is eight years old - before I'm once again on first name terms with staff at the breakdown call centre.