Previously when I’ve bought a car, the sales manager at the dealership has whizzed around to my office to indulge me in a test drive. This time, however, I fancied visiting the garage itself, so booked an afternoon off work.
I arrived at the Aston Martin dealership and was busy discussing the merits of the DB9 versus the V8 Vantage when a toilet break was required.
After sampling the Molton Brown handwash, I was attempting the marble-floored walk back to the showroom when I was accosted by a Lottery-winner type. “’Ave you got a cloth? My kid ’as dropped ’is ice cream.” he hollered. Glancing towards the doors, I saw Lottery Boy jumping in a pool of pink sludge, causing it to splash on to the £128,000 V8 Vantage Roadster, while his Pat Butcher lookalike mother yelled into her Swarovski crystal-stickered phone.
After summoning a valet to clean up the mess, the horrified looking sales manager guided Lottery Man to the exit, while trying to refrain, I suspected, from administering a swift boot up the backside.
Once the test drive got under way, the sales manager’s not-so-subtle sales patter began. The £89,950 DB9 was “taxed and ready to go”, he told me. I told him I’d rather wait and asked him to take me through the financing options back at the garage.
Just as I was leaving, a pair of obnoxious young traders I’d had the misfortune to encounter at a function turned up in a Ferrari. After considerable sniggering about how they’d managed to sneak out of the office, Ferrari Passenger whipped out a debit card and purchased a DB9 and a Vantage.
Not to be outdone, Ferrari Driver bought a DB9. They then spent 20 minutes trying to work out how to get the cars back, while I devilishly called my friend, their boss, and informed him of their whereabouts.