How not to buy a car? Let’s file this one under sheer incompetence

Let me preface this by saying I am very bad at paperwork. Very, very bad. If I’m ever sent an important bit of paper that I must on no account lose, I “file” it in a chest of drawers in my flat that is rammed with wrapping paper, tangled wires, loose batteries and, inexplicably, an old mouthguard.

That said, I decided to buy a new car this week. Not new-new, I’m not Jeff Bezos. But I decided this was the moment to swap my old diesel car for a younger petrol version. What follows is a lesson in how not to buy a new car, although I’m sure you’d be far more sensible about it than me. You could hardly be less sensible.

Off I went to Car Giant, a car “superstore” in north London. For those whose lives haven’t been blessed with a visit, it’s essentially an

enormous car park, segregated into sections with BMWs in one area and Kias in another. You look at the cars and find a nice salesman to help. If you agree on a car, you can take it for a spin on the surrounding industrial estate and process through a series of drab waiting rooms while the paperwork’s sorted. Our spell in purgatory, waiting anxiously to hear where we’re off to next, is presumably quite similar. I felt a pang of guilt about sitting in such a place while Greta Thunberg thundered across the Atlantic to save the planet. But I like driving very much and it’s not as if am constantly taking private jets everywhere, eh Prince Harry?

Anyway, I agreed on a car with one of these charming salesman. It’s exactly the same as my old car but with half the mileage and, alarmingly, red, but the salesman told me that was the only option available in my price range and I believed him because, well, these poor chaps get a bad rap, don’t they? I decided to exchange my old car and return to