Listen, Sneezy, I was wondering …
I hate it when it starts like that.
That usually means I’m about to asked to do something soul destroying like go to Boots and pick her up a jar of Wrinkle-Eze™. And I can’t find it on the shelf. And I have to get help. And they snigger and ask is it for yourself, sir? And I might get embarrassed. Or I might get mad and think about slapping me lad on the counter saying something like take the wrinkles out of that. But I don’t because I’d get arrested and have to go to court. Mr. Sneeze, you are accused of one count of lad-slapping on a counter at Boots, a pharmacy, on Main Street at a time unknown on Thursday, June 19th. And more importantly I don’t because that isn’t the type I am and anyway there’s always the risk the assistant might hit me and I’d end up in wards one, two and three of the local hospital.
This time was to be worse. Far worse. Far, far worse.
We’re thinking of changing our car and I was wondering would you go look at these for us when you’re out - I’m stuck for time and you’ll be passing all these showrooms, she says handing me a scroll longer than a plumber’s waiting list. Get prices. I’m thinking, brochures, you could get brochures, she says.
Get stuffed, I’m thinking.
I dislike cars. I really dislike sales people. Combine the two and it’s like a green flag to a unionist.
I gave in eventually.
Howya. I’d like to take a gander at the Muzdy 5½ Tiddely Die loadza litres with go faster spots and room for a pony, please.
I just got one in yesterday. (They always “just got one in yesterday”). So what are you driving now?, he asks as we walk between the rows.
A 10-year-old green thing with a tape deck and four new tyres. Any clue where I can get blank tapes by the way?
Tapes?!?! Not the foggiest. Now there’s a reason to be changing for sure. (Big laugh and a wink at the receptionist).
The car’s grand. Just had the NCT. Submissions couldn’t be lower. High distinctions. Great extractions. All sorts of good results. A1s across the board if it was doing the Leaving. No way am I changing it for another ten years - it has new tyres. Now will ya just show me this jallopy so I can move on to the next ad for Windolene™.
Ah, I see. It’s for the little woman then. Better you do the looking - the little women don’t know anything about cars, heh, heh.
She’s someone else’s “little woman”, not mine. And as far as I’m aware she’s fairly genned up on cars.
The Muzdy 5½ Tiddely Die loadza litres with go faster spots and room for a pony is a pretty big car - you must have a large family. Ho, ho, good man yourself. Heh, heh.
Hello! Rewind the tape. (I forgot they don’t do tape anymore). Not my “little woman”. Just show me a Muzdy 5½ Tiddely Die loadza litres with go faster spots and room for a pony, tell me the prices - the list one and the real one, give me the bumph - full specs. not pretty pictures, and let me get going.
Dead right. Shur the little woman would be here all day asking me about colours. We’ll get the job done in jig time.
It was the same story in the other three showrooms.
… Four years previously …
With her car already sold, I volunteered to drive a friend around so she could look for a replacement. No matter how often either of us explained the car was to be for her, to be bought with her money, to be driven by her and that I was only tagging along, every single sales guy addressed the questions to me. If she asked about something, it was to me it was explained. Eye contact score: 90-10. And that was with me staring into space half the time.
Some things never change.
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