What makes a car Jewish? I mean, how long you got?

But actually, it was the motor not the menschen that had snagged Martin’s attention, for neither owner nor passengers were in sight. And he has a point, does he not? From Toyota Previas and Alphards to Ford Galaxies, Estimas and, of course, the Volvo, certain cars are popular with frummers. Not for nothing has Stamford Hill been dubbed Volvo City.

It’s a car I know rather well too, for the past 16 years I have driven a Volvo XC90. Bought brand new thanks to an unexpected bequest from a beloved uncle, it has over the years done sterling service as the family workhorse. Be it ferrying kids to school, accommodating huge food shops – I  have written in these pages before about the fathomless appetites of teenage boys – or driving us across the country on family holidays.

And yes, I’ve loved it all these years for its Jewishness too. Others may prefer state-of-the-art boxes, fizzing with gizmos and fancy accessories. My Volvo – as exemplified by Martin’s reaction on holiday – creates a sense of camaraderie with other Jewish owners. We’re like truckers, acknowledging our shared experience as we park up outside the local deli.

However, thanks to advancing age – mine and the car’s – it’s time for us to part company. I no longer need a seven-seater since the kids have all left home. What’s more, the repairs aren’t cheap and I do have a twinge or two of conscience about the planet.

On the other hand, it will be hard to say goodbye, not least because I am constantly reminded of the fact that I am the owner of a “Jewish” car. Take what happened at a drive-in valeting service in Manchester last month. As I wound down the window, the chap with the hose and shammy leather remarked that I was “a bit early”. When I looked at him blankly, he added: “You’ve got another four weeks to go.” The penny dropped. He was talking about de-crumbing the Volvo for Pesach.

Interest piqued, I asked him why he thought I was getting ready for Passover. The car was just a mess. Plus, I was wearing jeans, I don’t sport a sheitel. “Your car is an absolute giveaway,” he grinned as he began to spray the wheel shafts.

So what to replace the Volvo with? At a time of rising antisemitism it might be political to go for a neat little runaround, something less identifiably Jewish. But I’m not sure I can go so off-piste.

What’s more, as so many friends also have the same car, I’ll sort of miss marching over to what I believed to be my Volvo outside Tesco only to find I’m unintentionally trying to break into someone else’s.

But above all, I’ll miss a fellow tribesman spotting my car and doing what we do: bageling.

In fact, the only consolation is that in all likelihood its new owner will be a young Jewish mother looking for something large enough to accommodate her growing brood. The thought of my Volvo once again negotiating the school run or playing its part in party rotas is comforting. Should I see this lady behind its driving wheel, I shall give a yelp of joy.