I was completely ignorant when I came to Oxford about most
practicalities: and once single, this became clear almost immediately.
This chapter, is not, dear reader, one to be skipped for its lack of
excitement if you are bent on being, or have just become newly
single. I wasted much money and energy through my own stupidity,
lack of expertise and general gullibility. So please take heed.
The unimaginable horror of maintaining a car.
I had arrived in Oxford driving a one-year-old Renault 30, in near
perfect condition. But it was much too expensive to run, and I
decided to sell it. I went alone to Luxicars, a garage dealing
specifically with Renault, to ‘do a deal’. The slick salesman I dealt
with, who in fact dealt with me, convinced me that Renault 30s were
really obsolete. They might, with luck, sell for scrap, he said, but
certainly no private buyer would want one. There was absolutely no
demand for them whatsoever, he assured me with a shake of his
smooth hand. “Who after all, would want a large expensive to run
vehicle in this day and age?” he asked. Now it would be a different
matter completely, he explained if I was selling a small vehicle such
as a Renault 5, which incidentally, was a model he would
recommend. And, coincidentally, he had just such a one. A Renault
5, twelve years old, but only owned by one lady driver, who hardly
ever used it but kept it in a cosy garage. Imagine that one lady
driver, perfect condition and hardly ever used! What a bargain. And
in 1982 unbelievably, I actually believed him. So, a transaction took
place. I paid £1,400 for a twelve-year-old Renault 5, with 56,000
miles on the clock and Luxicars credited me £600 in part exchange
for my Renault 30, just one year on the clock. It was all perfectly
legitimate. No one forced me to sell low and buy high.
Indeed, I thought I had quite a good bargain. I had bought a small,
desirable inexpensive to run, Renault 5, and Luxicars, in part
exchange, had acquired an apparently undesirable and seemingly
unsellable Renault 30. The salesman must have gone out at
lunchtime and drunk Champagne to his success at felling another
pathetic and inexperienced woman. The thought still makes me sick.
I left the garage in my innocence, quite happy. My friend Michael,
usually so supportive and encouraging when told of my various
activities, went completely white, shook a bit, and seemed unable to
speak when I told him of my bargain. To have been so duped by a car
salesman’s line of rubbish and untruths was, to him, incredulous.
My brother-in-law and the vicar held the same view. I tried
unsuccessfully therefore to stop my cheque, recover the Renault 30
and return the Renault 5. But I was too late, the cheque had been
cashed. The bargain had truly been struck and I was the loser. Two
weeks later I saw the Renault 30 parked outside a large house in
North Oxford. The house did not, at a glance, look like a scrapyard.
The worst punishment for my folly was that I felt such a fool and was
constantly reminded of my stupidity by my friends and loved ones.
Car stories are very dreary so I will keep the facts to the minimum.
I will simply say that for three years the Renault 5, once on the road
could not be faulted. However, it wasn’t often on the road. It had
one major deficiency. It wouldn’t start. Apparently, it did not like any
weather conditions. It felt no joy in the warmth of the sun, nor in the
winter cold, nor in the wind or in the rain, and sulkily refused to
budge. Several garages tried to cure this problem, but it was totally
unresponsive to all efforts. Three years later, when my aunt died and
left me a small legacy, I decided that a new car was top priority.
This time, I thought, no charlatan or rogue in a garage is going to
outwit me. I shall approach buying a car in a thoroughly wise way –
much as an Army officer might plan an attack, with rigour and
efficiently. I sent for a copy of Which Magazine’s special issue dealing
solely with cars. It described in great detail the different makes, their
good points and their drawbacks. For instance, small roomy ones
with hatchbacks, large roomy ones economical in petrol with a place
for the dog, sports cars for Yuppies, or stout and reliable ones for the
older couple. In fact, a large variety of combinations each of which
had professional recommendations.
After weeks of deliberation, I decided that the right car for me
was the Vauxhall Astra GL 1300. It suited all my requirements and
was thoroughly recommended as a smallish comfortable car,
inexpensive on petrol but full of life, as it were. Having made that
decision I now had to find and buy a second-hand model. I bought
several copies of the Thames Trader (a magazine advertising used
cars in the area) over the ensuing weeks, marking suitable
contenders. But finding and buying the perfect car is not easy. Often
ones that sounded suitable had already gone by the time I rang, or
the advertisement had neglected to say that although the car was in
‘perfect condition’ and only two years old, it has somehow travelled
some 55,000 miles. It is true, apparently, that after 100,000 miles a
car engine is in its dotage, and the rest of the pieces and parts are
none too sprightly either. In fact, they all need replacing – including
the engine. Anyway, becoming by now a little desperate (the
Renault’s insurance had run out) I saw one advertised as being in
perfect condition, three years old, and only £2,500 because the
owner was going abroad. I made an appointment to see it the
following evening in Newbury. The house was in Newbury’s affluent
suburbs and the lady selling it was a middle-aged, middle-class
Telegraph reader who organized her local PTA. Dependable, I
thought. She and her husband were ‘devoted Christians’ and were
selling this car for friends, a couple who had had to rush off to
Canada to spread the word. Having bought this car, reputed to be in
good condition and finding this not to be so, I concluded the mote in
their own eye should have been examined before they rushed
abroad to set others to rights about theirs.
I knew that it was common practice to get the AA or some expert
to check any car before buying, but several people had seen the car
that day and there were more to come. The woman was anxious to
sell it (not surprisingly) and as the AA takes approximately four days
before going out to look at a potential car, I had to buy it
immediately or lose it. It looked in excellent condition and during a
ten minute ‘drive around’ it seemed perfect. I bought it.
Two days later I drove it back to Oxford. During this short journey I
discovered that driving over fifty miles per hour the steering wheel
wobbled so much that I couldn’t hold on to it, the heating didn’t
work, and the light switch came away from the dashboard when I
tried turning the lights on. And that was only the beginning.
I feel it is important to note this ‘perfect’ cars deficiencies, so that
potential trusting females might benefit from mistakes. These are
the completely new parts I have had replaced or repaired in the last
fourteen months:
3 tyres
1 light switch
1 car engine
1 choke
1 starter motor
1 gasket
plugs
1 battery
-
Plugs
1 alternator
1 set of keys
1 ignition switch
1 exhaust pipe
1 front offside shock absorber
1 offside suspension leg
Back brake shoes
1 fuel pipe from pump to carburettor
Points
In addition, I had the fan belt tightened, the steering wheel
adjusted, and the tyres balanced. The bill for these ‘adjustments’ has
so far come to £1,063.25.
Anger, agony, disbelief, fear, and frustration are just a few
emotions I have undergone over the months worrying about this car,
to say little of having to find the money to pay for it.
Garages are still a male bastion, and my conclusion is that a
woman should never go to them alone unless she has done a car
maintenance course and is assertive by nature. A man is imperative
in car transactions and single women should bribe, hire, or pay one
to accompany her when car dealing, either buying or just organizing
repairs.
I have just learnt to ask the right questions about dirty points and plugs,
and/or checking the carburettor and I do now know that the
electrical parts are nothing whatsoever to do with the engine – but
still. I have learnt too late. Cars and their curious temperamental
ways are really beyond me and are, also, of little interest. I simply
wish one thing of my car, that it should be reliable. So far this wish
has not been granted and sometimes I seriously think that I would
get married again if I could find a man to take charge of the dreaded
car with all its whims and fancies, and bills. The last time I took the
beastly thing to the garage the mechanic, now very familiar with the
perfect Astra, declared desperately that either my car had a jinx on
it, or it was what is known, in the trade, as a ‘Friday night’ car. This is
the one, apparently, that is the last on the line to be assembled on
Friday night before the weekend break when everything is put
together in great haste but without much care. I strongly suspect my
Astra was one of these, since short of replacing the windows and
doors there is not much left of the original model. And not a great
deal left of my savings. CAVEAT EMPTOR, Let the buyer beware, is a
quote I shall never now forget when buying anything. I strongly
endorse its truth.
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