To commemorate The Girl having her first Driving Lesson today – how OLD does that make me feel? I thought I’d share some driving… erm… ‘experiences’ with you all:
1. I will always remember my first proper lesson (i.e. NOT the one with Dad fuming and huffing and rattling the gear-stick with one hand on the flippin’ steering wheel which really did my confidence NO good whatsoever) and the sense of power and freedom it gave me. I thought I could do ANYTHING if I could drive.
2. My first proper Instructor was an ex-policeman who had such a relaxed attitude about paying attention to my driving (he had dual controls too) that he only realised I was taking a corner a bit too quickly when looked up from his “Caravanning Weekly” magazine – odd what we remember isn’t it? And saw that I’d embedded his car into the side of a MultiParts van at a junction – their jaunty slogan of “Thousands of parts for Millions of cars” trilling ironically in front of us.
(The only UP-side of having this accident was the look on my mother’s face when the Actual Police came round and read me my Rights in the living room. I don’t think she went out for a week after this… neighbours, you see.)
3. Whilst attempting the three-point-turn during my first Test and because it was always tricky getting the gear into Reverse, after I’d done the whole ‘mirror, signal, manoeuvre’ thing, I forgot it was still in Reverse and, believing it to now be in First ready for the OFF, I cheerfully shot backwards at speed and knocked down a sapling tree - on the pavement. I laughed like a nervous Nellie and said to the Examiner “is it worth me carrying on?” to which he replied in the affirmative. I sweated and held back tears for the remaining 25 minutes of the Test.
4. During my second Test, a year later, I failed for TWO reasons. One: I hadn’t let a bus pull out when it was indicating – I didn’t actually realise it is LAW to allow any public transport clear access. I do now. And I let buses pull out all the time. See? I learned.
The second reason was because whilst waiting for the traffic lights to turn green on the High Street, three of my friends walked across the road in front of the car. When they realised it was me inside, they stopped in front and started pointing and talking and waving their Funky Junction shopping bags at me. Forgetting where I was, I revved up the engine menacingly and roared back at them from behind the wheel like I was intent on mowing them down. The examiner was not best pleased. Dangerous he called it. Stupid dumbass Blonde moment I call it.
5. I didn’t take another test for 4 years after these failed attempts, convinced God was telling me I wasn’t meant to take control of a weighty, metal killing machine. I should stick to buses – at least they get to pull out when they want.
6. The day I passed, I could have kissed my Examiner. It was a lovely sunny day, just after lunch (apparently more people pass if the Examiner isn’t raving hungry for food) and he was helpful with my Road Signs test at the end. He didn’t give me the answers, but he was nice and smiley and encouraging. I shall always remember him. Whatever his name was.
Showing posts with label The Car. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Car. Show all posts
Sunday, 30 January 2011
Sunday, 24 October 2010
Time well wasted
I'm not liking Car Salesmen. Almost as much as I've come to not like Estate Agents or Insurance People or anybody else who thinks it's their job to sell you something you need at an over-inflated price you can ill-afford.
Take for example... oh, let's call him Mr P... whom we met with the other day. For an appointment. A proper, pre-arranged appointment we'd made about 3 days previously.
We arrive 5 minutes early and we're asked to take a seat as Mr P is busy with somebody else at the moment and would we like a tea or coffee? No, we wouldn't, we've just had one. We'll just sit and wait for 5 minutes.
15 minutes later, we are asked if we'd like a cup of tea or coffee and that Mr P has had to re-schedule so we'll be seeing another Mr P (they're all made of the same transparent material anyway) when he's finished with his customer. Would we like a cup of tea or coffee?
No, we wouldn't.
I would like some Panadol, something to eat, and to get to Sainsbury's before sunset please.
A further 20 minutes later, during which time we have read all there is to know about every model and shade of car post-1914 and I've lost a few challenging games of 'BallBreaker' on my phone, Mr P strides up and shakes the Husband's hand meatily, not even glancing my way. I could kick him. *I'm on tablets, I'd have every right. I roll my eyes, sigh and follow the Hunter-Gatherers to Mr P's desk.
'So what are we doing today?' Mr P asks our expectant faces. Clearly he hasn't the first idea. And the other Mr P hasn't had the professional foresight to enlighten him. *I sigh again and probably roll my eyes again too.
I let the Hubs explain (in case I lash out which is very probable as my stomach is now turning on itself) that although we bought our current car from them a scant 5 months ago, that it's not really working out for us. i.e. it looked great with it's top off in the sunshine but we didn't realise it had such a voracious appetite for fuel, that it drives like you're taking a dead dog for a walk and it costs more in road tax than it does in insurance - and that's not cheap.
Upshot is, this car was clearly a mid-life-crisis panic purchase (don't look at me, I was a quivering wreck who never wanted to get behind the wheel of another car in my life) we can't afford it and we want something more economical.
Please.
That's why we're here. Which is what we already told the nice receptionist lady when we made this appointment in the first place.
Mr P takes out his forms and starts filling them in. Name. Address. Telephone. Drone. Drone. Drone. Why the hell couldn't this have been done BEFORE our appointment? We've been here nearly an hour and we've got PRECISELY nowhere.
And when Mr P realises our current car is in MY name, he finally decides to recognise that I exist.
Would we like a cup of tea or coffee?
No, we'd really like to find out how much we've got left to pay on the finance agreement with this car and sort out what our options are with a more sensible car. That's what we'd like to do.
All through the inane form-filling process I am acutely aware that the only thing Mr P is interested in is trying to persuade us to buy a totally brand new car - even to the extent that when we're shown the car he HE wants us to buy (probably been on the forecourt too long and needs shifting) and we walk past a cute, cheap little Citroen, he steers us right past it, ignoring my "coo-ing" and "aaahh-ing" (it's such a lurid colour that NOBODY would miss me on the roads). And we again end up facing him over his desk.
When he's finally worked out how much deposit our current car WON'T make, that if we sell our respective souls on E-Bay to scrape together a down-payment, we are told that repayments will be more, we'll be repaying for longer and at the end of the term we'll still have a final settlement figure nearing £6,000.
You what?
And this helps us HOW?
I have to ask him how he sleeps at night and he looks a little curious. I explain that although his little scenario might earn him some top commission, it doesn't help us in the slightest. If we were looking for a way to increase our debt and push us into more money misery, then by involving much more interesting things than a heap of metal with wheels, we could handle it ourselves thank you very much.
'I love my job,' he tells us. 'I wake up every morning with a thrill, knowing that this day is going to be more exciting than the last. I've been doing this for nearly 20 years and I wouldn't want to do anything else.'
I smile charitably. Bless his poor, sad, deluded heart. He knows no better. So I decide to turn the other cheek. And if I don't get to Sainsbury's, I will eat his forms without ketchup.
'Can we book a test drive?' I say kindly, standing to leave.
'Absolutely,' he says, pound signs "ker-ching-ing" in his eyes, and excitedly scampers off to put us in his diary for... oh about three minutes ago.
I know it's *childish, but it made me feel slightly better.
 |
| 'Mr P' |
We arrive 5 minutes early and we're asked to take a seat as Mr P is busy with somebody else at the moment and would we like a tea or coffee? No, we wouldn't, we've just had one. We'll just sit and wait for 5 minutes.
15 minutes later, we are asked if we'd like a cup of tea or coffee and that Mr P has had to re-schedule so we'll be seeing another Mr P (they're all made of the same transparent material anyway) when he's finished with his customer. Would we like a cup of tea or coffee?
No, we wouldn't.
I would like some Panadol, something to eat, and to get to Sainsbury's before sunset please.
A further 20 minutes later, during which time we have read all there is to know about every model and shade of car post-1914 and I've lost a few challenging games of 'BallBreaker' on my phone, Mr P strides up and shakes the Husband's hand meatily, not even glancing my way. I could kick him. *I'm on tablets, I'd have every right. I roll my eyes, sigh and follow the Hunter-Gatherers to Mr P's desk.
'So what are we doing today?' Mr P asks our expectant faces. Clearly he hasn't the first idea. And the other Mr P hasn't had the professional foresight to enlighten him. *I sigh again and probably roll my eyes again too.
I let the Hubs explain (in case I lash out which is very probable as my stomach is now turning on itself) that although we bought our current car from them a scant 5 months ago, that it's not really working out for us. i.e. it looked great with it's top off in the sunshine but we didn't realise it had such a voracious appetite for fuel, that it drives like you're taking a dead dog for a walk and it costs more in road tax than it does in insurance - and that's not cheap.
Upshot is, this car was clearly a mid-life-crisis panic purchase (don't look at me, I was a quivering wreck who never wanted to get behind the wheel of another car in my life) we can't afford it and we want something more economical.
Please.
That's why we're here. Which is what we already told the nice receptionist lady when we made this appointment in the first place.
Mr P takes out his forms and starts filling them in. Name. Address. Telephone. Drone. Drone. Drone. Why the hell couldn't this have been done BEFORE our appointment? We've been here nearly an hour and we've got PRECISELY nowhere.
And when Mr P realises our current car is in MY name, he finally decides to recognise that I exist.
Would we like a cup of tea or coffee?
No, we'd really like to find out how much we've got left to pay on the finance agreement with this car and sort out what our options are with a more sensible car. That's what we'd like to do.
All through the inane form-filling process I am acutely aware that the only thing Mr P is interested in is trying to persuade us to buy a totally brand new car - even to the extent that when we're shown the car he HE wants us to buy (probably been on the forecourt too long and needs shifting) and we walk past a cute, cheap little Citroen, he steers us right past it, ignoring my "coo-ing" and "aaahh-ing" (it's such a lurid colour that NOBODY would miss me on the roads). And we again end up facing him over his desk.
When he's finally worked out how much deposit our current car WON'T make, that if we sell our respective souls on E-Bay to scrape together a down-payment, we are told that repayments will be more, we'll be repaying for longer and at the end of the term we'll still have a final settlement figure nearing £6,000.
You what?
And this helps us HOW?
I have to ask him how he sleeps at night and he looks a little curious. I explain that although his little scenario might earn him some top commission, it doesn't help us in the slightest. If we were looking for a way to increase our debt and push us into more money misery, then by involving much more interesting things than a heap of metal with wheels, we could handle it ourselves thank you very much.
'I love my job,' he tells us. 'I wake up every morning with a thrill, knowing that this day is going to be more exciting than the last. I've been doing this for nearly 20 years and I wouldn't want to do anything else.'
I smile charitably. Bless his poor, sad, deluded heart. He knows no better. So I decide to turn the other cheek. And if I don't get to Sainsbury's, I will eat his forms without ketchup.
'Can we book a test drive?' I say kindly, standing to leave.
'Absolutely,' he says, pound signs "ker-ching-ing" in his eyes, and excitedly scampers off to put us in his diary for... oh about three minutes ago.
I know it's *childish, but it made me feel slightly better.
Thursday, 20 May 2010
NEWSFLASH! Men are *still* from Mars, sadly...
Take the day we met Scarlett. Yes, a car will always be a 'she' for some, possibly entirely sexist reason - and here I'm almost tempted to quote Lord FlashHeart from 'Blackadder Goes Forth' as he addressed the Twenty-Minuters - but I won't just in case it offends anyone. A lovely sunny day. And it strikes me that if it had been peeing it down with rain, the impact of seeing Scarlett for the first time may have been diminished somewhat.
Because she was sitting out there on the grassy knoll of the forecourt, flaunting her undoubted sex-appeal with her top off. Right in full view of any passing trade. Which, I'm guessing was the whole point of her state of undress.
And it worked.
Cue awestruck potential customer (i.e. Hubby): 'Look at this! And it's under seven grand!'
APC's wife (i.e. Me): 'But we want something economical - like this 207. it's only got 20 thousand on the clock - and it's younger and it's.....'
APC: 'Look - leather seats. And see - it's got a built-in SatNav screen - and bluetooth attachment... and look here...it's got...'
Me: 'No bloody roof. Er...how is it going to protect me when I roll it?' (because this is HIGHLY LIKELY to happen - in my World)
APC: 'It's in the boot. And you don't have to have it down. Only in the summer. Only when it's not raining... only when...'
Me: 'You're driving it.' (I may have scowled).
APC: 'You have to admit it's got style...'
Me: 'And 60,000 on the clock. It's ancient!'
Enter Salesperson (shiny suit, slick hair, dollar-signs in his eyes): 'Lovely isn't she?'
(I cringe and wonder how I got on the set of 'On the Buses' or 'Robin's Nest')
Me: (ever-sensible Wife) 'How many miles to the gallon?'
Salesman: 'Oh, now let's just have a look shall we? Have you seen this on-board satellite navigation system?' (question aimed directly at APC and not the 'little woman' which makes me seethe as well as scowl).To which APC nods enthusiastically. 'This clever little device will tell you everything you need to know... when you're running low on oil, water, fuel, when you're due the next service... when you need to take a right or turn around...what the ambient temperature is in South Korea (I made that up but he probably said that - I'd switched off by then)...'
Me: 'So - miles to the gallon?'
Salesman: (answering APC again and avoiding any eye-contract with me) 'Let's have a little.... ah here we are - looks like the last journey was giving the previous owners an average urban of aroundabout 33, 34... not bad for a two litre I think you'll agree...'
Me: 'Two litre - the insurance'll be huge!'
Salesman: 'Yep, plenty of oomph this little baby - of course she handles like a dream. Let's take her out, shall we?'
As the slick salesman eases himself into the 'plush leather interior... you cannot have fabric in a convertible - it makes perfect sense...' and the topless temptress glides out of the forecourt, I am hissing statistics to my awestruck other half. All along the lines of fuel consumption, insurance groupage, economy of service/repair, tax, back seat leg-room and the reduction of doors by two.
'I wanted something sensible, economical, practical....' I may just as well have been peeing into the wind for all the impact my words had on APC. He'd died and gone to convertible heaven twenty minutes ago. Now he was cruising down the High Street on a summer's day with his top off and the Beach Boys blaring out of the (5-slot) CD player with Robert Palmer waiting in the wings. His sexy little sat-nav lovely telling him exactly where she wanted him and precisely where he should take her next.
And the look on APC's face when a switch was flicked and the (metal) roof went back on is something I last saw when we went to see 'Transformers II' - in fact reference to these lean, mean, shiny machines was actually made. No, I mean - properly made.
I might as well have taken a good book with me for all the input I had.
But here's the thing.
The APC is about to celebrate his 40th Birthday in about four weeks' time and I'd much rather he cavorts around with slinky Scarlett in full brazen view of his wife than creep about behind my back trying to get into one of my girdles and chatting up the lithe, sweaty ladies that jog up our road of a morning.
So Scarlett, my lovely, you are very welcome to join our little family and so long as you keep your curves in our driveway and don't go leading my lovely-but-very-easily-swayed husband astray, then we'll all get along famously.
(*ahem*)Until I write you off, of course.
(joke)
(kinda)
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