OPINION: My father said there was always a reason why I couldn't have nice things and in my case it's any kind of motor vehicle.
After years of denial, I reluctantly agreed that yes, I am cursed when it comes to owning any kind of car - or even sitting in one.
Before anyone jumps to conclusions, I would like to take this opportunity to say my previous and current vehicle(s) were and are very loved, had a regular warrant of fitness, and were serviced regularly. I consider myself a good driver, although friends may have slightly different views.
My first car, a little white Toyota Corolla (Oliver) died suddenly in a tree accident, where my father decided to move him from the garage and park him under the 100-year-old oak tree on perhaps the windiest day in history.
After many years of battling coastal storms the old oak finally gave in, splitting in two, with one half crashing down on my beloved Oliver, completely caving the roof in and shattering the back window.
I tearfully drove him into town the next morning accompanied by concussed spiders and bruised acorns only to receive news that there was nothing the mechanics could do - Oliver was written off.
My second car, Jess, a banged up Toyota Carina, lost the back door, after it flew open when I just happened to be backing past a metal pole. The door came clean off and cost more to replace than the actual car itself.
I tried a motorbike, but that didn't work either. Our driveway was located on a steep and sloped bend of a shingle road and my thought process of careful navigation couldn't have gone more wrong as I turned into the driveway and slipped on the gravel.
Luckily, as a learner driver, I wasn't going fast, but fast enough that the impact from the concrete fence post knocked me off sideways with the bike landing on top of me.
"You're not getting your motorbike licence," my father murmured driving past me on his own bike, leaving me stranded beneath mine.
A shopping trip also went horribly wrong after a friend and I decided to take the Fiat X19 (Fi) to Napier - but being a temperamental Italian car, the cambelt flew off, resulting in Fi being hospitalised for some months. Her new name - "the dust collector".
My best friend, went through two cars after the motor blew up in the first one and the radiator fizzled out in the second - both happened when I happened to be in the passenger seat, therefore it was my fault.
"This only happens when you're in the car," she grumbled as the AA arrived.
The curse must run in the family, as my uncle lost his old series one Land Rover after parking it to open a farm gate. The handbrake failed and it rolled past him through the gate and down a cliff, landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom.
The steering wheel also came off my father's one when he was trying to navigate one of the steepest hills on the farm.
If anyone knows of a military tank for sale - do let me know, it's the only thing I can't see myself or any family member accidentally destroying.