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If there is any activity in this world that is more tedious that looking for a used car to purchase, I don't want to know what it is. Some people might say "house-hunting", but I disagree. When you buy a house/flat - even a used house/flat - and you know you are going to use it as your average person might do, for eating and bathing and sleeping and bed-related shenanigans and whatnot, you know that you are very likely going to be able to sell it for at least the amount you bought it. If you're at all careful about location and you're willing to bargain a bit, you will very likely turn a profit.
Cars, on the other hand, start to depreciate as soon as you get inside them and turn the key in the ignition, no matter what you choose. Okay, okay, unless you're buying a limited-edition luxury Jag or the like. But you have to be a petrol-head - and a petrol-head with plenty of cash, for that matter - to be able to purchase a car that will actually appreciate when you finally have to get rid of it. Neither the bloke nor I want to spend the kind of money on a car that you could use for a deposit on a house.
So you head reluctantly into your car-hunt with the knowledge that whatever you buy, you're going to lose. And then you meet with the pathological behaviour exhibited by most used car salespeople. With a shudder, you realise you have hit on a positively nightmarish way to spend a weekend, let alone several in a row. I mean, who wouldn't want to drive a car before deciding to purchase it? Isn't that mad? One salesman tried to bully us into promising to buy a car before he would let us drive it. Thankfully, we weren't fed up enough to agree, because it turned out we both hated that sort of car (a Ford Focus, if anyone cares).
If we don't have a car by this weekend, someone's gonna get a hurt real bad. Probably a used car salesperson.
* Marguerite was our beloved 22-year-old diesel Citroen BX who died tragically three weeks ago when her cambelt snapped. The bloke bought her from his old landlord four years ago for £300. That's my kind of car. RIP Marguerite.
Cars, on the other hand, start to depreciate as soon as you get inside them and turn the key in the ignition, no matter what you choose. Okay, okay, unless you're buying a limited-edition luxury Jag or the like. But you have to be a petrol-head - and a petrol-head with plenty of cash, for that matter - to be able to purchase a car that will actually appreciate when you finally have to get rid of it. Neither the bloke nor I want to spend the kind of money on a car that you could use for a deposit on a house.
So you head reluctantly into your car-hunt with the knowledge that whatever you buy, you're going to lose. And then you meet with the pathological behaviour exhibited by most used car salespeople. With a shudder, you realise you have hit on a positively nightmarish way to spend a weekend, let alone several in a row. I mean, who wouldn't want to drive a car before deciding to purchase it? Isn't that mad? One salesman tried to bully us into promising to buy a car before he would let us drive it. Thankfully, we weren't fed up enough to agree, because it turned out we both hated that sort of car (a Ford Focus, if anyone cares).
If we don't have a car by this weekend, someone's gonna get a hurt real bad. Probably a used car salesperson.
* Marguerite was our beloved 22-year-old diesel Citroen BX who died tragically three weeks ago when her cambelt snapped. The bloke bought her from his old landlord four years ago for £300. That's my kind of car. RIP Marguerite.
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Good luck! And sympathy.
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Thanks. I think we're nearly there...
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