Zen and the Art of Motor Purchase

My apologies in advance for becoming something resembling Jeremy Clarkson. Most of my recent posts appear to be about car trouble, and I sincerely hope that this is the last in a significant line. After a further breakdown rendering my vehicle uneconomical to repair I asked my father for advice about what I should do in the hope that a loan would be forthcoming. It was, and as my brother and I discussed this evening, we are blessed with very generous parents, but that does not mean that there isn’t a price to pay, albeit frequent deep breathing and regular tongue biting rather than interest.

I had been feeling a tad guilty about not involving my dad in any decision making because for him it seems nothing is simple, but he knows much more than me about cars, so what could go wrong? I had reached the point of not asking whether he preferred to coffee or tea lest he make a decision in the house of Goddard, but decided to relent.  If I had gone it alone I would have wandered into a dealership, told them how much I had to spend and asked them to show me a black, navy blue or grey one. I would have then picked the prettiest car, pulled out the plastic and the job would have been a good’n. It’s my general approach to shoe buying, and I have very few regrets on that score.

I’m not sure if it’s a generational thing or a man thing or a combination of both but going car shopping with my dad made thoughts of having my wisdom pulled out with pliers but without anaesthetic seem appealing. Sticking pins in my eyes would have been preferable, but I persevered firstly because I knew that his approach was sensible whist mine was expedient and shallow, and he had a very firm grasp indeed on the purse-strings and wasn’t afraid to remind me of this. Frequently.

We went on a recci to the local dealerships. I had hoped in vein that this would lead to a purchase which in retrospect was naive in the extreme. After establishing what a two to three year old five door car costs in the land of trade sales (something that could have been established on the interweb) we re-grouped to  consider our position. The interweb search followed. Telephone calls to “people that know about motors” followed that. In the meantime, having been dropped at a bus stop after the unproductive foray in dealership world I embarrassed Twin One who accompanied me by giving the bus driver our address and asking him to stop at the cashpoint on the way home.

In any event I am pleased to report progress. Today I identified a car that is economical, has low mileage and within budget sufficiently to satisfy my lender. It’s black and pretty enough to satisfy me and the Twinset. My brother observed that on learning that dad was helping me with a car purchase that he had anticipated a discussion about makes and models over Christmas lunch. That has to be a result...

Every Cloud has a Silver Lining or Every Silver Lining has a storm cloud

Kate asked me to explain the term “every cloud has a silver lining,” and since she is invariably of a sunny disposition approved of the notion. Since this conversation I have attempted its application when a cloud enters my airspace. I appreciate that relating tales of car troubles may be tedious, but my motor vehicle has been something of a four wheeled storm cloud of late. Last Tuesday morning  just as I was pulling out of a parking space outside of Jack’s school the power steering failed, and I was stuck partially blocking a narrow road. I went through the AA routine, and expect to become best friends with the call centre staff shortly. It also happened to be a white van man morning in this particular cul-de-sac, and although I had engaged the hazards, white van men issued expletives for what they considered extremely bad parking until I explained that the technical term for the state of my motor at that moment was “totally fucked” They then they apologised and negotiated around my stranded rather than abandoned vehicle which is my general method of parking. Eliciting sympathy from men not renowned for wishing female drivers luck was something of a silvery chink.

Oh, and I lied when I said earlier that I was pulling out of a parking space. I had pulled over onto the outside school zig zags which everyone knows makes children hurl themselves in front of oncoming traffic, and is evil. I digress, but Jack informed me recently that the only positive thing about paedophiles is that they always slow down near schools. The next cloud on the horizon was a traffic warden. I explained that I had broken down, that I hadn’t actually parked on the zig zags, and that my child hurls himself out of my slowly moving vehicle when I deposit him at school which means that but for the break down I hadn’t technically parked there. Just as I was about to receive a waggy finger, and possibly a ticket the AA man arrived, told the warden that he would move my car, and that was the end of that.

He confirmed that the power steering was knackered and needed replacing, but with a method I admired he carried out a temporary fix – he bludgeoned the pump with a mallet – to enable me to drive the car to a garage. Then he asked me which garage I use. It then occurred to me that the last time my car has seen a mechanic was the summer before Frank died, so almost two years ago. I found myself explaining, matter of fact, that my late husband sorted out the car more in the hope that he didn’t think I was a completely dippy bitch, rather than playing the dead husband card, which I now strictly reserve for the Inland Revenue, and to be honest they’re all out of love now if ever there was any. While the AA man drove round the block to make sure his temporary repair would hold out I phoned a friend (50/50 and ask the audience being unfeasible) who knows about local garages, and he booked the car in for me. Another chink of silver appeared.

The AA man then said that he would follow me to the garage to make sure I arrived safely, spoke to the garage owner in much the way that a paramedic would hand over a newly arrived casualty, and then gave me his mobile number and invited me to call him if I have any car related questions. The kindness of this particular stranger fully lined the morning’s cloud.

Another silver lining was the garage loaning me a car while my motor was repaired. The cloud: it was a skoda. The silver lining: I appreciate the quality of my car.

When I managed to negotiate the clunky old Skoda that Jack later remarked was louder on the inside then the outside – a bit like the Tardis being bigger on the inside than the outside – I received a call from my boss offering me five day’s urgent work that would be worth about a grand. An unmitigated silver lining. Then the bill for the repairs to the car arrived. Let’s call it quits.