Mrs Down's Diary September 10

A neighbour has made a start but they are harvesting a much bigger acreage than us and have had to accept that some of the wheat will come home with a high moisture content and need drying.

Our combine harvester is titivated and primped to perfection. For the shed that is. Get her out in the field with some work to be done and it all goes disastrously wrong but, as she stands, every bit of her is working perfectly.

Which was the same as could be said about my car. In six years it had never let me down. Its capacious boot, especially when the back seat cushions were removed, has transported wardrobes, bicycles, tables, chairs and, a few weeks ago, a bed settee. Owning a Volvo estate almost enables you to run a small furniture removal business.

But all good things must come to an end, and I am afraid it is human frailty that led us to trade in my beloved V70. The frailty? John's back. My car was just too low for him to get in and out of without difficulty. Used as he is to stepping down from his Land Rover and tractors, the scrabble to lift himself out of my car was becoming increasingly difficult.

"But I don't want a big four-wheel-drive truck," I said. For a start, there is now that punitive road vehicle licence, they are gas guzzlers (my diesel estate averaged 48mph) and I think they wallow on motorways. Well, the ones I have driven do anyway.

So my lovely garage has come up with the perfect compromise. A Volvo estate but higher. A cross-country version. Four-wheel-drive but not a Chelsea tractor. John can enter and exit in comfort and there are all manner of new toys on board for me to play with. Like the sat nav '“ or road traffic information, as Volvo calls it in this case.

Remember that James Bond film where the zombie rose slowly from his grave? Well, my sat nav does just the same. Switch on the ignition and a black headstone lifts eerily out of the dashboard, shines a blue light in my eyes and then starts bossing me around as to where I want to go.

Soon changed that. There is now a much more placatory female voice to replace that dictatorial male.

Mike, who handled the deal, pleaded with me to leave all the rubbish I had in the car boot.

"I think there is probably more value in that lot than there is in the car" he said. Cheeky devil. Although I did find a cheque I had lost track off, Ollie's other shoe, spare set of keys to the back door, enough pens to restock the office, three cans of baked beans (why?), the curtain hooks I knew I had bought but had never been able to find, and enough trash, flotsam and jetsam to fill the wheelie bin to overflowing.

And not only has the familiar sight of my old car gone from the yard but we have also sold Bryony and Chris's camper van for them.

For five years it has hung round our yard, clogged up the sheds and narrowly avoided being wiped out by tractors, trailers and articulated lorries.

"We will use it," they said each summer. "When?" we asked. "Definitely next year," they answered.

It will be now '“ but not by them.