Car free, carefree - and desperate

My enthusiasm quickly evaporated, however, when I actually started poring through the classifieds and realised the whole thing was going to cost me a substantial amount of cash.

I also became terrified of getting stiffed by some crisp-collared sales-jerk or a bunch of snakes in a floral-print dress disguised as a sweet old lady.

Since then, I have resorted to that special trick we all employ when we fail at something - pretending everything worked out for the best.

These days, I get to tell all my iron horse-owning friends how they’re all chumps because not owning a car is actually fantastic.

It makes me feel like the modern equivalent of the explorers of yore as I walk places and occasionally stop because it’s too hot or I’ve spotted money on the ground.

To be honest, I casually tell them, the fact that other people already own cars really puts me off them.

When I was 17, I crashed into some sort of charity van because I was distracted by one of those costumed Eagle Boys “pizza deal” sign-waving people. What’s to stop some thin’n'crispy-fiend from ploughing into my vehicle in a similar manner?

On a side note, the van wasn’t full of puppies or anything, just food for the homeless. Statistically, if you never drive, you’re less likely to die behind the wheel - unless you get stabbed behind a ferris wheel. That happens occasionally. There’s also a reduced risk of losing a high-stakes race in an abandoned aqueduct.

It’s also worth noting that my carbon footprint is tiny. By the time I’m 35, I’ll have an entire Amazon-worth of carbon credits stored up, which will come in handy if I ever need to dump a barrel-load of toxic waste in the woods or drive a Hummer.

And look, I really don’t mind catching the train. It doesn’t matter that it’s unjustifiably expensive and endlessly draws money from me like the giant, soul-eating metal leech that is.

Public transport gives me something to complain about every day, which the voices in my head tell me is a vital part of sanity retention. You have your “engine troubles” and I’ve got my “56-year-old man playing Celine Dion too loud”. The whole process gives me an extra 30 minutes each day to judge people.

In the meantime, can one of you give me a lift home real quick? Thanks heaps. I’ll owe you one.

Read Jason Tin’s full story on Punch.