When Leona Helmsley died recently one of the main benefactors of her will was her dog. If she had only left some Premium Bonds and a bungalow in Eastbourne it might not have made the headlines. But the American property magnate left her maltese terrier, Trouble, £6m. Right now that very small dog is living large.

At first I thought: “Nutcase.” But then I started thinking I have this Alfa Romeo and, well, we’ve been together a long time now. I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. She was for sale. The pert, curvaceous chrome half-bumpers poking out provocatively from beneath a tattered tarpaulin. But she’d been cruelly neglected. “Name your price,” I said, perhaps for the first time in my life outside of the best brothel in Tijuana.

So I bought it and fell in love. This was a car with a personality. It had habits, character traits that were inexplicable in a supposedly inanimate object. Some mornings it would just refuse to start. Not an especially uncommon experience for anyone who owns an old car. However, there’s usually a mechanical explanation. Not with this car. This car had feelings. How else would you explain a spark, compression, fuel and – nothing? And why did it happen only on those mornings when I needed to be somewhere else in a timeframe for which you’d require a Tardis? It was obvious. The car was sulking. It didn’t like being taken for granted.

So when I was planning a mad dash down the motorway I’d act like I was off on a pleasure drive down country lanes. I’d approach the car, casual like, whistling for added effect, and take my time to settle into the seat. And I swear to you, if I did this, the car would burst eagerly into life the instant I cranked the key. And then I’d whisper a few words of encouragement – in Italian.

What I’m trying to say is that in the same way Trouble was much more to Leona Helmsley than just a daft little dog, my car is more than just a car. It’s a link back to a simpler, more optimistic time. When I had more hair and money and fewer kids and direct debits. When the suggestion that one day I’d have to remortage my house so I could afford my dental bills seemed ridiculous. The beauty is that – unlike me – my car never has to get old.

The only estate I’m likely to leave is a Volvo. So, I’m going to be buried in my Alfa. For all sorts of reasons. First, it’ll save on a coffin. Second, not only will we not need a hearse but there will be at least three free seats for mourners – four if you stick me in the boot. Third, it’s a Sixties Italian sports car – it’s had enough trouble retaining its structural integrity above ground – stick it six feet under and it’ll biodegrade faster than Zac Goldsmith’s trousers.

Oh, by the way. If you own an ageing Alfa convertible and are driven half-mad by the unavailability of certain parts, you may be paying special attention to all this. And if one day you find yourself digging in the dead of night by lantern light, waiting for the clang that will signal the whereabouts of my hard-to-find Carello headlamp cowls or super-rare Cromodora alloy wheels, I’ll understand.

Hell, I had to ship those wheels from South Africa and wore away my fingerprints wet-sanding them smooth. Like I said, I’ll understand, but that doesn’t mean my vengeful spirit won’t haunt your every waking moment until you beg for death. You have been warned.

Steve Berry, a former Top Gear presenter, is a regular motoring pundit on BBC Radio5 Live