Of car-buying and salesmen

I need a new car. A sad, but true fact. My sweet little aubergine has developed some, well, incontinence problems and so is starting to smell less-than-savoury, and there was that incident of refusing to go, in rush-hour traffic, in the fast lane. So, yes, the result: the search for a new (secondhand) car.

Some back history, to make my tale of woe a little more sensical. Cars do not interest me. At all. This, in fact, is an understatement. I know nothing about them, and couldn't give a hoot about how much horsepower (or whatever) they have, as long as they get me from A to B. I have been known to answer to the irritating question: "What car does he drive?" with "A blue one." Often, I have been wrong even with that, the car in question being a brilliant red one. I can, I'm proud to say, discern a car from, say... a bicycle, but that's about the sum total of my vehicular knowledge.

A couple of weeks ago, when The Pond was here, we trundled off on a blustery Saturday morning to town where the car places live. We were bombarded with all shapes and sizes, all the 'best on the market', completely trustworthy, fabulously shiny... car salesmen. Before we even got to the cars. The car salesman cliche, I am here to tell you, is no lie.

So you see my dilemma. Enter: C, thank goodness. A friend who IS interested amd is fabulously organised and gathered together information on all the possibilities (with me, I'm sure very irritatingly asking, after glazing over during the 'specs', "But what colour is it?")

This morning I am going with her, to another place where secondhand cars live, waiting for new owners. I am going to do my best not to ask what colour they are. This should be easy, as I will be able to see the colour. I will also try my hardest not to glaze over when they talk 'specs' and promise to try not to make up stories about the greasy car salesman's personal life in my head, behind my glazed-over eyes.

I wonder if I'll manage?