2016 is the year of the car - in my world anyway. But it's a big step for a girl who's never had to buy her own four wheels.

Until now, my dad has always found the bargain motor, done the deal, and then I've simply handed over the cash and hoped for the best. And so far so good.

Since passing my test, I've been blessed with beautiful cars, from my first £900 D-reg Audi A4 which an old man had owned but barely driven, judging by the low mileage and mint condition, to a retro Nissan Sonny estate complete with faux Walnut dashboard and very loungey seats.

Sadly, the Audi came to a sorry end after I failed to put the handbrake on tight enough. I still remember the resounding bang almost 20 years on. We lived on a hill at the time. It was a small mercy the car had been parked on our drive and not the actual slope. It rolled backwards, down the drive and ricocheted across the road, bouncing from one garden wall to the opposite one.

At the time, I was doing my best not to rush to the window to see what the commotion was. I didn't want my new husband to think I would leave our dinner à deux to be a nosy neighbour. Then reality hit with the ensuing door knock by a passing stranger who politely asked whether I was aware that my car had rolled away. Alas, poor Audi. It served me well before it was towed away to scrapheap heaven.

My dad's most recent gift of a car was a solid, old but trusty VW Passat estate which lasted as our family car for seven years until it was past its use by date - but, for the right owner, it still had a good few years left in it.

Having never bought a car, equally I'd never sold one either. And it turned into one of the most surreal experiences I've had.

At first I attempted to sell it on Facebook - a friend has just sold her York house that way so it was worth a shot.

Naively I thought the offers would flood in. Two days later, with impatience mounting, I phoned round scrap merchants but the highest offer was £75, the lowest a mere £25, putting it in the same price bracket as a dressing gown.

I tried a website that promised to buy any car but they offered such a paltry sum I hoped never to be that desperate. Finally, I plumped for advertising in print and the unappealing prospect of strangers ringing at all hours.

Four days of phone silence followed and I would've been grateful for a cheeky call from anyone trying to chance their luck. On the fifth day, a gruff voice on the line demanded to know what was the lowest I'd take in cash, followed by the promise of a visit the next morning. I was mentally popping the Prosecco - but he never arrived.

Just as I thought about giving up, another stranger rang on the evening of day six, with a long tale of woe before she finally enquired about the car. This protracted conversation resulted in an almost clandestine meeting ten minutes later, after dark under a lamp post in a supermarket car park at Monks Cross.

"Just look for a woman in black, with pink wellies," trilled the would-be purchaser. My dad accompanied me to the rendezvous point, Thermos mug of tea in hand.

The raven-haired woman with aforementioned wellies gave the car the the briefest of inspections before instructing her companion, a man called Dave who said very little, to give me a deposit. He unrolled £50 in notes, plus a further £20 for fuel. The sale, it seemed, was done.

Three days later, with my bodyguard (aka dad) in tow again, we signed the paperwork on the back seat in another York car park and I counted out the final lump sum from silent Dave in between furtively looking over my shoulder.

Moments after declaring she hadn't driven for two years, the pink wellie lady then drove off with my beloved pride and joy. "Bye Nadia, I'll text you!" called my new bestie. And that was that.

Confirmation from the DVLA that I was no longer the owner brought some relief after such a peculiar and slightly ropey transaction. And I am now free to go forth and seek out a new motor - unless my dad finds one first, saving me the job.