Normally I like to pour you into your Sunday morning in the same way that you might pour a pint of double cream onto a Commodores love song. But today, I’m afraid, we’re beginning with some maths.

If you’re five years old a year is a fifth of your whole life, which is why it seems to go on and on for an eternity. But if you’re 45 a year is a 45th of your life, which is why it passes like winter’s day in the Arctic. When you’re 45 time passes quite literally nine times faster than when you’re five.

When you’re 75 time is hurtling by at such a rate that driving your small car is like plunging through a tear in the space-time continuum. The throttle pedal is a hyperspace button. This is why old people drive so slowly; because 12mph to a pensioner is like 2,000mph to a teenager.

When you sit behind them at a roundabout wondering why on earth they won’t pull out, it’s because the approaching lorry that, to you, is moving at 14mph is coming at them like the Starship Enterprise on combat power.

Last weekend I had the usual list of jobs. Take one child to school, drop the boy off at a rugby match, get home, take the third to her riding lesson, then get back to watch the second half of the game before picking the others up and dropping them all off again at different parties. It required military planning and certainly there was no time for the doddering old man who was crawling down the A44 in his Clio at 21mph.

And nor did I have much patience with the Rover that, from behind, was apparently being driven by four wisps of white hair. I lost my temper quite badly with this one, especially when it stopped at a set of green lights on a route I use to avoid a local double mini-roundabout which, for the past four years, has been home to an old lady in a stationary Metro. Of course, so far as she’s aware, she’s only been there four seconds so she really can’t understand why everyone in her wake is so angry.

Now this was a Saturday and it got me thinking. What are they all doing, these old people? I thought they only ever went out on a Sunday, taking their nose hair to a local beauty spot, eating a hardboiled egg and then crawling home again.

Of course it’s not hard to work out what’s happened. Old people are now a damn sight fitter than they used to be in the days of the Austin 7. My mother is 70 million years old but there’s not a hint of incontinence yet. She plays tennis three times a week, likes chainsaws, swears like a Dutch bargee and spends her days laying stone flag floors in whatever house she happens to be renovating at the moment.

Elderly people, then, are no longer content with a hardboiled egg and a nice view of some heather. They want to get down to the local DIY superstore for paint and a gin trap. Some of them even want to keep on touring with their rock’n’roll bands. And that’s fine. Except of course that while they may be physically capable of fighting wolves and singing I Can’t Get No Satisfaction, there’s no getting around the pace-of-life problem when they get into the car.

Or is there? This brings me neatly on to the Honda Civic. Ever since the first incarnation came along, ooh, 35 years ago, this has been the car of choice for Britain’s grandparents. It made no statement, had no style and never went wrong. It was as practical as a Pacamac or a see-through headscarf. It was therefore as perfect as a pair of plastic shoes for the beetle-drive generation.

But now there’s a new model which appears to be radically different. It is built in Britain and was described by Andrew Frankel in these pages last week as “arguably the most futuristic car on the road”, so presumably he won’t mind too much if I argue.

It’s not futuristic at all. It’s a perfectly ordinary five-door hatchback that has been fitted with all sorts of funky jewellery. Yes, the radiator grille is made from glass and the exhaust tail pipes are triangular, but does that make a car futuristic? I’m not sure it does. I think of it more as being a pensioner in a thong. I think of it as Peter Stringfellow. Or Mick Jagger, if you prefer.

It’s the same story on the inside. Yes, all the dials are spread around the dashboard in an unusual fashion, but is it futuristic to fit a digital speed readout just below your eyeline? Or is that as sensible as uPVC windows? Is it just plain common sense? Honda will tell you in guarded moments that it built the new Civic this way deliberately to scare away its elderly customer base, to bring in some new blood. I think it has failed. I think the new Civic is exactly what Britain’s fitter, stronger B&Q pensioner is looking for.

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Part of it is, of course, down to Honda’s legendary quality. Study the results of any customer satisfaction survey and Honda regularly sits at the top. I have a 30-year-old Honda lawnmower that still works. Hondas make the solar system look unstable and unreliable. And with the new Civic things are even better.

Examine, if you will, exhibit A, the steering wheel. It is fashioned from at least three separate parts and has all sorts of buttons on it for the cruise control and stereo. So how much do you think it costs Honda to make it? I have no idea, but I bet a wheel like this is three times more expensive than the wheel on a Ford Focus or VW Golf.

And it’s the same story everywhere you look. Everything that could be made from a cheap one-piece moulding is made from six intricate parts. So, while the Civic is no cheaper to buy than its rivals, and has no more equipment as standard, the value is off the scale. Old people like that sort of thing.

They will also like the hugeness of the boot, because they will be able to take their exercise bike home rather than wasting a day waiting in for it to be delivered. And they will like the seatbelt warning light that tells the driver if a grandchild in the back has unstrapped himself for some reason.

One of the things they’ll especially like is that while everything appears to be more complicated than a town centre roundabout, it all works very easily. Even my mother, who is as computer literate as a dog, could work the dual heater controls, the sat nav and the stereo.

But the real genius is to be found under the bonnet. I agree with Frankel that the diesel is by far and away the better engine, but since it’s not available with an automatic gearbox it’s also irrelevant. To get the auto you must have the petrol version which, as Andrew says, is pretty uncouth and raucous.

This, though, is the masterstroke. It makes 30mph feels like 80, so Mr Jagger and Mr Stringfellow, and my mother for that matter, can at least feel they’re travelling quickly without actually getting the impression they’re stuck in an interstellar wormhole.

A younger person would find this impression annoying. Chiefly because 80 sounds like 200mph, which becomes awfully wearing after a while. And the throttle linkage is a bit jerky, too. But younger people won’t buy a Civic, so it doesn’t matter. What younger people will do is get stuck behind one a lot.

VITAL STATISTICS

Model Honda Civic 1.8 ES i-VTEC
Engine 1799cc
Power 140bhp @ 6630rpm
Torque 174 lb ft @ 4300rpm
Transmission Six-speed manual
Fuel 44.1mpg
CO2 152g/km
Acceleration 0-62: 8.9sec
Top speed 127mph
Price £15,400
Rating 3/5
Verdict An oldsmobile for supergrans

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