Sitting out in the drive is something very red, very shiny and very welcome. A car. The combined efforts of many people over the last few weeks to get me back on four wheels again. After handing back my company car, a moment which felt very much like someone being downgraded in the services and having their epaulettes torn off, I was carless in Callington; and whereas walking sounds good in theory, especially when mentioned by those who have a car, it isn't quite so good in practice. When I announced I was going to buy a car I was met with a barrage of advice and warnings of the dangers ahead. I got less when I went to Beiruit for my birthday. I was, according to the pundits, in the worst position of all when it comes to buying transport. Firstly I was a woman. Secondly I was an elderly woman. The person who said that managed to get out of the room before the vase hit him. Everyone joined in. 'They'll see you coming a mile off,' was said by one master of the art of the bleeding obvious. When I said that my daughter was going to accompany me I was told that would make no difference. Two women are just as attractive to unscrupulous garages it seems, especially when neither have the advantages of being blonde and 22. My son was by far the worst, but then he usually is. I'm not even allowed to contemplate buying anything electronic without consulting him. He's never really forgiven me for buying an Apple Mac because he doesn't know anything about them and can't blind me with science and unintelligible jargon like he can with his PC. 'You're not going on your own?' he asked, as if I had just stated I was off up the Amazon in a canoe. I assured him that I wasn't, if only because I didn't fancy walking. He then insisted on going through various scenarios I might meet in car showrooms. I wasn't to walk around showing any interest in anything whatsoever. I wasn't even to look at a car, preferably just pretend I'd wandered in off the street by mistake. As there is absolutely no reason to be in a car showroom save to look at cars, this isn't feasible. They don't sell dresses. Why didn't I look round various car parks to find a model I like? That was the next suggestion. Fine, except I could just hear the phone call to the local police station reporting a strange woman casing vehicles. 'Get down here quick boys, I think there's going to be a car jacking.' Then there was the question of money. 'Don't on any account tell them how much money you want to spend,' he warned. I think we can all see the flaws in that advice. When you buy anything you have some sort of price in mind, unless you're Elton John or the like. It gives a bit of a clue to the seller. And even if you don't say, they may eventually notice that you're by-passing the BMWs and homing in on the four-year-old Nissan Micras. That's the bit of a clue they're waiting for. Nevertheless, we then had to go through scenario numero uno. I was the customer and he was the salesman. 'Good morning madam,' he said in a slightly suggestive tone which I hope most car salesmen have long since abandoned. 'What can we do to help you?' 'I'm looking for a car,' I was supposed to say, although this would make me look like the proverbial female idiot that my son was warning me about. Why else would I be there? 'And how much do you want to spend?' he said. 'Oh, about x number of pounds,' I said. 'No, no no,' he shrieked, that's exactly what you shouldn't say. 'Irony's not your thing, is it,' I said. My punishment was that we had to do scenario number two – I was the salesman and he was the customer. 'Now madam,' I said in my best salesman's voice, 'I can see your looking for a clapped out Honda with a dodgy history and as I can see you're only a woman so I think I have just the thing for you. Goes like a bomb. Literally. How much are you willing to pay over the odds?' He put the phone down on me. But not for long. By the next call he had a new solution. I should read up on car expressions and go in sporting the knowledge I had gained. Talking about overhead camshafts and braking systems. Comparing engine sizes and the like. Mention Jeremy Clarkson was a friend. All very well, I told him, but you can get caught out in a big way with just one question from the salesman in return. And as I'm never quite sure where to put the oil in a car I don't think I could get away with having an intelligent conversation about car engine sizes. Then he got serious and started to check the internet. What I needed, he decided, was a small economical car, easy to park, cheap to run and maintain, and ideal for a woman. His suggestion was one of those vehicles which look as if the back has been cut off with a chain saw. 'I'm not going to drive around in half a car,' I said firmly. We agreed to differ about what sort of car was suitable for a woman. Then his father, my ex, got involved, who's never been entirely convinced that women should drive anyway. 'Tell your mother to look up a website which is called babes and cars or something like that, which gives advice on how not to get ripped off by salesmen if you're a woman. Perhaps we shouldn't really go into how he found this site. All I can say is that if you put the word babes into Google you get a lot of sites which don't appear to have an awful lot to do with cars. There was a lot of other advice as well, such as ringing up the previous owner and asking them what the car was like, except you don't know who that is until you have the car, which is bolting the stable door etc. And do you really want to ring someone and hear the sound of hollow laughter down the phone? 'I bet your father also said to kick the tyres,' I said sarcastically. 'Well, no,' he said, 'but it's a good idea.' Gotcha, I thought, and asked him why it was a good idea. He said he didn't know but everyone always did it on television. I know it's nice that people were only thinking of me but by the end of last week I just wanted to look on ebay, pay for postage for the first thing that caught my eye and get it over with. Finally, my daughter drove me around, telling me not to open my mouth until she said I could. Now I know she means well, but having someone else speak for you often leads the salesperson to think you are, well, a bit do-lally. When I bought a house my daughter came with me and because she had issued the same advice, 'let me do the talking', the saleswoman then only addressed questions and answers to her as if I was not in the vicinity. I wondered if I should drool a bit to add to the effect. Any minute I expected her to ask 'does your mum need to use the lavvy?' In the end things were simple. We drove to a car salesroom nearby, I can't say which because that would be advertising, but it's in St Ive. We were welcomed with enthusiasm, given time to look around, came under no pressure and I didn't even have to drool.
