Why is it so insanely difficult to buy a car? And especially if you are a woman? Part of the trouble is that car salesmen are a particularly unreconstructed breed of men who think ‘lady’ customers will be more interested in the size of the vanity mirror than the fuel consumption. But it’s not just that — it’s the fact that they treat the transaction with all the pomp and gravitas of applying for a half-million-pound mortgage.
This started back in February when I left a party (remember those?), got into my Volkswagen and set off into St James’s. Somehow I pressed the accelerator instead of the brake and drove smartly into the side of a taxi, making a serious dent. It was quite clearly my fault but, surreally, two very smartly dressed men who’d been walking along arm in arm rushed to my side and said: ‘Dear lady. Are you hurt? We will be your witnesses! We saw everything that happened!’ The taxi driver was understandably furious, but I assured him it was all my fault and gave him my name and phone number. I noticed that my car was a bit bashed at the front and thought I’d better take it to the garage but then lockdown descended and I forgot about it.
When lockdown lifted, I drove to and from the shops in my battered car until one fine day I had the bright idea of taking it to the car wash. Big mistake. When I emerged the whole front bumper had fallen off and the side light was dangling by a wire. Clearly it couldn’t carry on.
My friend Jean said why didn’t I buy a little Peugeot like hers? ‘Where did you get it?’ ‘Car Giant,’ she said.
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