With a reputation for being robust, reliable and as sexy as halitosis, Volvos don't often feature on the wish lists of spotty 17-year-olds.

So it probably says more about me than I'd care to admit that I always aspired to owning one.

In fact, I'm now on to my second. A dull grey 12-year-old 940s. A clanking, grinding beast with blue velour seats, which Parker's Car Price Guide describes as: 'slab-sided, bus-like and stodgy'. It cost £1,740 - though the bloke gave me £40 off as the battery was flat. It'll soon have clocked up 200,000 miles. Only another 50,000 and it will have driven to the moon.

This week, however, I'm behind the wheel of a rather different Volvo - the curvaceous V50, which is the estate version of the hugely popular V40. It is robust and reliable, as you'd expect, but it's also been given a beauty make-over. It costs £17,548, but by the time you add up the extras, it can come in at 25 grand. It's 'passion red' and has white leather seats. Its energetic 2-litre diesel engine will take you to a top speed of 136mph, it does 0-62 in the same time Asafa Powell took to sprint 100m, and it can cover 50 miles with a single gallon.

Muscular yet elegant, Volvo is hoping to win over a new generation of customers with its V50 sportwagon (it's out with the wellies and Labradors and in with the vintage trainers and goatees).

The new owners will, according to research from Volvo, be between 25 and 34, and will mostly be married. They'll be 'cosmopolitan and sociable'. Many will be 'virgins', trading up for their first Volvo from a Vauxhall or a VW.

They will, in short, not be 'Volvo drivers' as we have traditionally known them.

And when they do make the switch they'll be very happy they did. Far from being the Anderson shelter on wheels of old, the V50 is now an indecent proposal bursting with chrome and curves. Its five-pronged 17in alloy wheels gleam like silver starfish, its grille is set forward in a menacing sharky way. It's estate end is neatly folded away.

And the make-over isn't just skin deep. Step inside and you find the V50 is brimming with brio. At its heart is a unique, free-floating instrument stack which hovers above the console and covers everything from air-conditioning to security and stereo settings. Buttons are large, rubbery and tactile, and the dashboard is as clear as day.

The V50 also features keyless entry, which means you don't have to root around in your pocket while balancing shopping bags on your knee. You just get in and start it up - as long as the key is on your person, somewhere. There's park assist, dynamic traction control, a detachable tow bar, built-in booster seats for kids in the back ...

In short, from now on being described as a 'Volvo driver' will be a compliment.

Me and my bike
Nigel Bell, 250cc Yamaha Virago

Viagra was unknown to me when I bought my Yamaha Virago in 1998. Now the similarity between the names is the cause of some embarrassment to me, and the Virago name has been quietly dropped from the Yamaha range. The second most embarrassing thing about my bike is the pathetically small number of miles I've ridden - I make excuses when I take her for a service: 'It's easier to jump in the car' or 'If it didn't rain so much I'd use her more often.'

I'm not a natural biker. When I was young I rode pillion behind my friends, but I never got round to buying a machine of my own. Just when I was seriously thinking about it, a friend was badly injured in an accident with a car, and that put me off.

Twenty years later, learning to ride was an exercise in overcoming my personal demons. Always in the back of my mind is the thought that falling off is going to hurt - a lot. But that adds to the excitement, and we all need a little bit of excitement.

So the truth is that I don't ride my bike much because I'm scared. But when I do, it's a glorious thrill. It's like a drug, and although it doesn't have quite the same effect of its near namesake, it is addictive, even in small doses.

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