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For years, I’ve been driving around in a ute whose duco is covered in stripes of white and yellow paint, gathered from various car park walls. I could blame the carparks. Would it kill them to make the slots a little wider?

I also, however, acknowledge my inability to drive. Since I was 20, I have been unable to drive across a farm paddock without hitting a tree, fence or gate. A high-rise car park is totally beyond me. The result is a vehicle which looks like a reject from Mad Max. On the Anzac Bridge, I flick on my indicator, and everyone gets out of my way.

Two weeks ago, I scraped the vehicle again. Long stripes of white paint sourced from the car park wall. This time around, I was so sick of myself, that I idly wondered whether I could repair the damage.

Sadly, my car couldn’t even make the cut for Mad Max.

I consulted the internet. It turned out that my car was suffering from what’s called “paint transfer”. To fix it, you buy what’s called a magic eraser – a small, slightly abrasive, cleaning pad. They cost about $2.50. You then anoint the paint with WD-40, wait a second, then buff off the offending white paint with the dampened magic eraser.

If you own a Ferrari, I urge you to do your own research and not blame me if it goes wrong. But, in my case, oh chorus of angels, it worked. I had to scrub a bit, but soon all the white marks were gone. The ute had a new lease of life.

The internet, which I had long regarded as a pox on all humanity – that destroyer of lives, that enemy of self-esteem, that spreader of lies, that threat to democracy – was suddenly revealed as the best thing ever.

You shouldn’t do what I’ve done and wait until your 60s to learn the basics of human existence.

Why didn’t someone tell me about the magic eraser before now? All these years, driving around looking like a fugitive from justice, and I could have been a model citizen. I also note that, according to the packet, it removes children’s drawings off walls, thus supplying my task for this weekend.

Newspapers sometimes publish pieces by older writers under the headline: “The thing I know now – that I wished I’d known earlier”.

These are usually sentimental pieces about valuing family and friends, remembering to smell the roses, and the necessity to be pleasant to the office junior, as they will inevitably end up your boss.

More useful, though, would be a more practical list. You shouldn’t do what I’ve done and wait until your 60s to learn the basics of human existence.

An odoriferous toilet, I have long thought, surely indicates a problem with the pipes, and so I pour all manner of chemicals into the bowl, upping the dose each time until I need a hazmat suit to deal with the fumes from the steaming jugs of sulphuric acid I’m tossing into the environment.

Then an old friend (there are limited people with whom you can have this discussion) said to me: “Have you tried the cistern? Sometimes mould or bacteria takes over, with all that water sitting there. Just add a cup of bleach or vinegar to the top part of the toilet and all will be well.”

Sure. It worked. Problem solved. Thanks very much. But why didn’t he tell me when we were both 22 years old and attending the same university?

To chill a bottle of wine in hurry, by the way, wrap it in wet newspaper or a wet sock, and place it in the freezer. The moisture helps convey the chill to the bottle in super-fast time.

To clean a silver necklace or cutlery, line a glass baking dish tub with aluminium foil. Add the silver pieces, sprinkle with baking soda, then add boiling water. The grime flits to the foil like iron filings to a magnet. The items come out sparkling. Throw away your Silvo. Throw away your polishing rags. Life is no longer like a scene from Downton Abbey.

And if, standing there with your screwdriver, you’re finding the screw is jamming in the hole, rub a bit of soap on the thread. Ah, that’s better. It goes in easily.

Of course, at this point I could turn to the deep philosophical stuff; the so-called “wisdom of the elders”. I could tell you never go to sleep on an argument. To treat others as you’d like to be treated yourself. To do every job to the best of your ability.

All good advice, I’m sure. More useful, though, if I tell you about the petrol symbol, on the off-chance you don’t already know. It’s there on your car dashboard, a tiny picture of a petrol bowser, an arrow pointing to the side of your car with the fuel cap.

Someone told me about this trick a decade ago, bringing an end to 30 years of parking on the wrong side of the bowser, before stretching the hose over the back of the car while the service station guy glowered.

So many problems. So many wasted hours. So many friends who should have whispered this stuff into my ear, but instead let me suffer.

If only I had a magic eraser to wipe the bad memories away.

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