Confusion Reigns Supreme

I took mother out for a drive on Monday last.  Well, she had her usual Monday morning meeting with her knitting friends and I had an appointment I needed to get to at about the same time.  So I drove mother to my appointment where she left me to go off and do her own thing.

My appointment was to view and test drive a car for my own personal use, rather than having to borrow mum’s trusty Smart FourTwo every day.

I’ve been working hard delivering groceries for a certain online supermarket for four months and have accumulated some savings, but more importantly, over the last few years, despite a patchy track record in my ability to hold down a steady job, I have maintained a VERY healthy credit rating.

I approched the car showroom – a converted stables and yard set deep in the woods and heathland of Horsell Common – and was confronted with an array of exquisite looking cars.  BMWs, Audis, Volvos, Porsches (and the odd Skoda and Nissan) all very well presented.  And the star of the lot was  a racy little Abarth that I wanted as soon as I saw it “in the flesh” as it were.

But this was not what I had come for.  That was out the back being prepared for my test.

The salesman, Gordon,  took my details and completed the necessary formalities as my ride for the next few minutes was brought round to the front for me to test.  He handed me the keys, I opened the door and was instantly hooked.

I sank myself into the luxurious leather armchair driving seat and feasted my eyes over a sea of walnut veneer.

A brief exploration of the basic controls led me to what felt the most comfortable seating position before I pressed the big red button marked “START ENGINE”.

Now, I was brought up in the ’70s and ’80s when deisels were dirty, noisy, smelly things, but this little gem purred into life with barely a sound.  I allowed myself a little grin as I gently eased on the accelerator, after all, I’d never had 3 litres of engine in front of me under my control before now, and we glided away from the showroom, down the driveway towards the road.

“Brakes are nice and sharp” I thought to myself before easing out onto the road to do basically a circuit of mixed trunk roads and country lanes.

And Head said unto Heart: “Is this really the car you want? It’s awully big.”

To which Heart replied: “You know I can afford it, besides, he deserves it.”

I put my foot down a little harder as I turned on to the main drag towards town just enough to reach the speed limit…

And Heart said unto Head “OOOOOooooooohh!!!  Racy, RACY!  Me LIKES!”

From deep inside my wallet I could have sworn I could hear both my debit card and my driving licence consoling each other…

I got back to the showroom and parked up and after going through all the necessary paperwork, getting confirmation that I could get finance for it (*yes*), taxing and insuring it, the keys were finally in my hand for keeps.

I drove home happy and waited for mum to notice a new car had been parked up outside the house.

She came home an hour later and asked if I’d bought the car yet…

The moral of this story?

I’m being paid too much

Is there one? Does there have to be one? Could it just be that I think I frickin’ deserve it?

As for the title of this post?  That’s her name.