Buying the Car
I was wearing my lucky boxers on the day I picked up the Micra. I'm not convinced that they're so lucky anymore.
After spending the afternoon trawling through endless rotten cars on Gumtree, Autotrader and Ebay, and missing out on a lovely example that was the most lurid shade of green in existence, a particular one stood out. The advert was light on detail, and it was clear that it was a bloke selling cars from his house, but it looked clean and had only done 35k miles. I called the seller and it immediately became clear that English was not his strong point, but I said that I should be able to make it to Peterborough for 16:30 and he agreed to hold the car. We agreed that, if the car was as described, he would sell it for £550 – over budget, but if the car was immaculate then it would hopefully be worth it.
I didn't even have time to shower; I quickly sorted out insurance and sprinted to the cash point, pummelled each of my cards to get the required cash, and after another heroic run I made it to Chadwell Heath station just in time to watch the train that I needed leave the platform. No bother; I would make up time somehow. After further sprints through Liverpool Street and Kings Cross stations, I managed to get to my train with a few minutes to spare. Excellent.
From Kings' Cross it is 45 minutes to Peterborough. Now, the internet wasn't working on my phone and at any rate it was very low on battery (a toilet/phone incident means that it doesn't hold its charge, and several concrete/phone incidents mean that not only do the charger case that I bought for it no longer work, but the internet doesn't either). This meant that I had a lot of time with nothing to do other than think about what I was doing. This was not good. The slow dawn of realisation that this may not be my finest hour started to creep into my mind.
I was travelling at 125mph to one of the less salubrious parts of a city that I had never been to, with a wallet overflowing with cash, where I was going to buy a 16-year old Nissan the size of a shoe off of a chap whose grasp of English could be described as 'Marginal' at best. I then had to drive said ageing, unproven supermini 100 miles home through rush hour traffic, to meet a girlfriend who was rather annoyed with me because I had told her that I was working late and she would have to go to her mum's. I decided that the best thing to do was to try not to think about it and grab a coffee instead. I proceeded to spilt said coffee over my crotch.
I arrived at Peterborough, jumped in a cab, and 15 minutes later arrived at the house where the Micra was parked outside. To my relief, it looked pretty good. The gentleman that I had spoken to came out, and was followed by two or three of who I am guessing were various family members. Fair enough. I checked the oil and water and did my best impression of somebody who knew what they were talking about, and he agreed that we could do a test drive to the end of the road and back (a good 150 yards, so plenty enough time to judge whether a car was up to going to Mongolia and back. Or London, for that matter). At the end of the road, I gently applied the brakes to turn around. I then applied them a bit more. I couldn't help but notice that nothing actually seemed to be happening and so, fast running out of road, I jumped up and down on them like a mad man, pushing every bit of body weight that I had onto the middle pedal. The car drew gently to a halt. I tactfully commented that the brakes weren't very powerful, to which I was angrily told that, “EVERYTHING is okay. The car is okay.”. Ah, right. That clears that up then.
Back at the house, I had another look around and underneath. I mentioned that one of the front tyres was only borderline legal, at which point the damndest thing happened; they all suddenly forgot how to speak English. Even the one with the British accent. Brilliant. Realising that they had seen me coming from a mile off (or 92 miles, to be precise), and also that with only a one-way ticket and no idea how to get back to the station, I had few options but to hand over the money. As I reached into my wallet to pull out the £550 that we agreed on, I was then told, “The car is £589”. I pointed out that we had agreed on £550, and just as I started panicking, his phone rang. While he was talking, this gave me time to reel myself from this unexpected hiccup, and put on my poker face. I remained firm, and after a bit more back and forth, he painfully said that if he would accept £550.
We signed the logbook, and a sudden horror came over me. There was no road tax with it, as since the law changed a year or so back it is not transferred with the vehicle. I asked the seller how I could tax it now, to which I received the reply of the night; “My bit is done. The car is yours now”. Dumbfounded, I asked again, and he rolled his eyes before telling me that I had to do it online before I could drive it, that I would be okay as long as I wasn't stopped before reminding me once again that it was entirely my problem. And, seeing as I had no internet on my phone and the Post Offices were closed, it was very much my problem. Cue Dad saving the day; one phone call, quickly giving him the reg and V5 number, and he agreed to tax it and we sort it out later. I hung up, safe in the knowledge that I could finally head home, before realising that I had exactly no idea where I was going.
After stopping for directions in the World's Worst Pub on an estate that had the appearance of usually being on fire, I reflected on the glorified crisp packet that I was driving. It really was tiny, but against all the odds, it actually seemed okay. The heater worked, the radio worked (ish). Even the brakes were starting to free up. It quickly became apparent that hills are not going to be our friends, but besides that the rest of the journey was mercifully uneventful. I got home, managed to annoy the girlfriend even further (I had forgotten that this was the day we were supposed to be picking up her new car, so when I arrived at her mum's and said that there was a surprise outside, her reaction upon seeing the crap-mobile as opposed to her shiny new Mazda wasn't exactly Moment of the Week).
So much for my lucky boxers.
C.H.
