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Good Morning,

The Pope's got a new motor. Or rather he's got an old motor: a 1984, Renault 4 GTL, with 200 thousand miles on the clock. It was given to him this week by a priest who was so inspired by the Pope's call to drive cheap, humble cars and give any remaining money away that he offered the pontiff his car. Pope Francis will shun the luxury limos used to transport previous Popes and drive himself around the Vatican in a motor that used to be every French farmers' vehicle of choice. It would be hard to drive a less flashy car. Or make a clearer statement.

When I got married we bought an old banger with a rust patch shaped like South America on its side. A neighbour once asked me if the car represented some kind of statement. To which I replied, 'yeah: my bank statement.' The car was more than adequate transport for relatively impoverished newly weds as was our next - a custard yellow hatchback - given to us by people who felt sorry for us driving a car that, by then, had a rust-map of the world on its passenger door.

Of course, cars say something about us. Our values. Our tastes. Our income. Our stage-of-life. Now I'm older I feel under more pressure to own something decent. Something smarter perhaps than our fifteen-year-old car that my thirteen-year old Daughter says is an embarrassment. 'Now that's a car,' she says pointing to the sleek, metallic coupe across the road. And , of course, it's beautiful and part of me wants it, or maybe that sports car the Swedish detective drove in The Bridge. Cars can be lovely things. They can make you feel better about yourself. And - as Janis Joplin sang there are fewer more visible statements of status: 'Oh Lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz, my friends all have Porsches I must make amends.'

For good or ill, you get judged by what you drive and the Pope knows this. His adoption of the Renault 4 is more than a stunt...

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