I bought a new car a few weeks ago. Not 'NEW' new. I work at the Mercury, for God's sake. I can't afford things like that. I bought a second-hand one. It should be an exciting time, shouldn't it, buying a new car?
It's not, though. Not for me. I find it all a bit traumatising. When we moved house a few years ago, I blithely signed on the dotted line for a mortgage that meant, essentially, I was a slave to the Mercury and the HSBC bank until the day I retired.
This should have made me tremble with fear but it didn't. I signed my life away for an eye-watering amount of money and we moved in.
I had no jitters. No second thoughts. No waking up at 5am, twitching, thinking about service histories and cam-belts. This has been the story of my past few weeks.
I did a ludicrous amount of research for this. I read car magazines and motoring websites. I compared reviews and scoured owners' reviews. For three weeks, I knew so much about the second-hand car market I could have hosted Top Gear.
I went to a garage that advertises regularly in the Mercury. They looked good. Well, in a big advert they paid for they said they were good. My experience was slightly different.
I'd picked out three cars that day – two in Leicester, one in Peterborough.
We packed some sandwiches, me and my boy, some old rock CDs, some cans of pop and some chocolates and we set off. It would be a road trip, I told him. Just me and him, the open road and the next chapter in his musical education. He seemed to think that would be all right.
I arrived at the first garage, the one that advertises in the Mercury, on Saturday morning.
I'd called them the night before about the car I liked. "We'll see you tomorrow," the man said. He sounded nice.
They weren't quite so welcoming when I arrived on Saturday morning.
"Hello," I said. "My name is Mr Leicester. I called yesterday about the car?"
"Yeah," said the man. "It's at the other garage."
"But I said I was coming this morning?"
Oh, it didn't matter. The other garage was just down the road. So I went to the other garage and looked around for someone to help.
I found lots of men standing outside the shop, smoking and swearing. I was with my 11-year-old son. As much as he loves to hear grown men swearing – it really is one of his favourite past-times – I'd rather he didn't.
"I'm here to test drive the car," I said.
Ah, one of the blokes said.
He showed me round the corner. The car I'd come to drive was at the far end. There were seven cars in front of it. I counted them. We looked at each other. "Did you want to drive it, then?" he said and I wondered if he thought I might buy it just by looking at it.
He didn't have the key. He would have to call someone from the other garage, the garage I'd just come from.
They would have to bring the key. It made the Mercury middle-management team look like a crack squad of Navy Seals, something I thought was impossible.
"Barry," he shouted. "You need to go and fetch the key for him to drive the car." He took a huge pull on his cigarette and theatrically blew out a huge cloud of smoke.
He went back to his friends and resumed smoking and swearing.
"I tell you what," I said. "Let's just leave it there, shall we?"
I had money in my pocket. Money I wanted to leave as a deposit for a new car, possibly his car, that day. I left without even sitting in it.
"I don't think you should have bought it from them, Dad," my son said. "They looked like baddies from a film."
We drove to see another car at another garage in Leicester. It was black. It looked nice.
It drove nice, too. But then I had a cursory look through the service history book and it looked like it had been compiled by Hans Christian Anderson. I left again, my deposit money intact.
We headed out to Peterborough, me and my boy. It was Saturday morning. Danny Baker's show was on the radio. I held off with the Thin Lizzy CDs because I like Danny Baker's show.
This was something of a revelation to my boy. He's only heard call-in shows on Radio Leicester, where the presenters, so utterly desperate for "listener involvement", urge callers to ring in with views on their favourite pie or colour of sock or, this week's red-hot debate, whether they prefer an online diary or a paper one.
On Danny Baker's show that morning, a woman rang in to tell him how her three-year-old son somehow got a saucepan stuck on his head and they had to call for the firefighters to free it.
Baker, the perfect ringmaster, took a step back and let her talk. He prodded her just enough and at just the right moments – NB, please note Radio Leicester presenters, he didn't wade in with his own under-whelming anecdote that wasn't as funny as the caller's, he just let her talk – and we drove along the A47, me and my boy, laughing like chimps.
We arrived at the garage in Peterborough. You should head out to Peterborough the next time you feel despondent about Leicester. It will help to put things in perspective.
Another car. I looked under the bonnet, pulled a few approving faces like I knew what I was looking at and I liked what I saw – I had no idea, really – and I took it for a drive. It was nice.
He dropped the price a tiny bit but nowhere near enough so we had a tedious debate about that which ended with him steadfastly refusing to budge. So I left. "Always be prepared to walk away," is the line you should keep in mind when you're buying a car. So I stood up and walked out.
We drove home, listening to the majesty that is Thin Lizzy's Live and Dangerous album and I told my boy all about the majesty of the Gibson Les Paul – he loved that – and three days later the man from the garage rang. "That offer you made," he said. "Yeah, fair enough, we'll take it."
So we had a deal. A week later, I was back on the A47 out to Peterborough to pick it up.
That was a few weeks ago. And ever since then, the car – it's just five years old, full service history, one careful owner – has creaked and croaked and been in and out of the garage. Oh, it's a joy and no mistake.
I have had several tetchy telephone conversations with the garage owner. He's gone from obliging to dismissive. I've gone from polite to furious. The last time we spoke, he put the phone down on me. I love that, me.
My wife likes to give her cars a name. "I'm calling this one The White Elephant," she said.
It looks like it might stick.
fredleicester@leicestermercury.co.uk
![COLUMN: The perils of buying a second hand car. COLUMN: The perils of buying a second hand car.]()