Never has the phrase ‘fish out of water’ been as apt as when used to describe a situation I have found myself in, not once, but twice, in the last two days. The situation in question was that of sitting in a fancy car showroom, opposite a young, enthusiastic, self-confessed petrol head of a salesman, discussing the possibility of buying a new car. We don’t do new cars.
As regular readers of this blog will know Gill and I drove from Gloucester to Lancashire last week sporting a makeshift passenger window fashioned from a plastic bag and a lot of gaffer tape due to the failure of the electric window winding mechanism on our elderly Skoda.
The now all too familiar prospect of another expensive visit to the garage prompted a discussion on whether perhaps it was time to consider changing our old car for a slightly less old one as we do from time to time. One thing led to another and I set to work crunching numbers to determine exactly what our current car had cost us over the last three years. The result was shocking and in some ways quite sad. It seems that in this age of interest free credit and a car industry that is desperate to shift new models we have arrived at a situation where it costs the same to buy a brand new car as it does to run a fourteen year old one. Hence the showroom visit but that isn’t what this blog is about.
What this blog is about is how fundamentally similar us humans sometimes turn out to be when we least expect it. As soon as we sat down with our clean cut, young and fashionably bearded adversary, because that is how I saw him at that point, I made it absolutely clear that we were not the kind of punters that sales targets and bonuses were made of. “We aren’t really car people” I announced and his face was a distorted blend of disappointment crossed with determination not to be beaten so easily. He declared himself to be a car person of the first order and we both laughed politely at how much ground we would need to cover to even come close to understanding each other. In a nutshell, we had absolutely nothing in common other than that he wanted to sell a car and we, reluctantly, needed to buy one.
Over the next half hour we batted off gentle attempts to add a few hundred quid here and there for unnecessary extras but as we did so we found ourselves revealing more and more of each other’s soft underbellies. The conversation bounced from metallic paint to some mystical ‘paint protection system’ which cost £300 but guaranteed that the car would remain in dazzlingly pristine showroom condition for as long as we were guardians of it. I had my doubts. Strangely though, in between all the sales guff, we found ourselves telling our new friend about our cycling adventure around the coast of Britain. He in turn revealed that he had a dream to move to Australia and start a new life but his girlfriend’s fears and family ties were holding him back. I explained the dilemma I had felt leaving my aging Mum when we went away.
I voiced my concern about a long financial commitment and a conversation that took place only the other night about jacking it all in again and taking off on another adventure. He asked with a smirk if such a conversation had involved a bottle of wine and we sheepishly confessed that it was two actually. A new common ground seemed to be emerging.
Suddenly we understood each other on a level that went much deeper than his love and our indifference to something as mundane as a car. It no longer felt as if we were in any form of car sales combat with each other. We both knew that really the only conflict lay in ourselves and our constant tug of war between the safe and the exciting. We were going for what would be a boring, safe car in his eyes but I sensed a touch of envy all the same. We had already taken a much bigger plunge than buying an expensive car and knew what it felt like whereas he was still standing on the edge of the diving board wondering. I wanted to tell him that the answer doesn’t come from fast exotic cars, the answer was staring him in the face but I didn’t because I sensed that he was close enough to diving not to need a push. That last step would have to be his and his alone. I still felt slightly uneasy about the new car, like it isn’t really us, but I felt very comfortable to have played a part, no matter how small, in encouraging somebody to take that leap of faith into the unknown. I am very confident that he will recall how it felt to land in Australia on the first day of a new life long after the memory of any souped up Subaru has faded.