Driving Down Standards - Friday

To the new car dealership as the company motor needs attention in the absence of a replacement on the horizon. There’s more chance of a straight answer from the Prime Minister than a morale-lifting thumb through the glossy brochures. I thought the joke about hanging on until the ageing fleet could be chopped in en-mass using the taxpayer-funded scrappage scheme was vaguely amusing, until the qualification date began to creep relentlessly closer.

‘Do you want me to hang on and give you a lift back to the office then?’ Asks trainee F whom I’ve brought along as the relief driver, on the basis he’ll do less damage on the queen’s highway than he can sat in my office missing sales opportunities.

‘Just let me see if they can sort out the MOT while I wait.’ I tell F less than optimistically. The chances are the vehicle will be marooned in the workshop for a lot longer than my patience will last pacing the customer waiting area like a caged primate, but it’s worth a shot.

‘Cool.’ Gushes F, as I make to reprimand him for the juvenile language but he’s off, trance like, across the showroom to drool over the sort of model that will never appear on our company car list. I watch as the gangly buffoon gravitates towards the gleaming motor as if on some sort of invisible fishing wire. And I gaze with rising amusement as I spot the supercilious looking salesman with a ridiculous garish tie and matching top pocket, look over his half-moon glasses with undisguised distaste, as F crosses the invisible threshold between lowly service punters and the hallowed sales area.

I constantly gripe-on about not erecting barriers between the public and us – enough dislike and mistrust there to start with. It’s why if weather and roadwork’s permit I’ll have the office door open to encourage punters to come on in. The price for easy access means the odd drunk – B in lettings excluded – stumbles across the threshold, and you need to be a little more creative with your, “I give privately, thank you”, rebuttals to charity tin-shakers, but on balance it works.

‘Can I help you?’ Sniffs the salesman towards F, more as a challenge than a welcome. Two basic errors I think vaguely amused. Closed question and the arrogant arse hasn’t lifted his own conceited cheeks from the chair, such is his instant qualification of F as a complete and utter time waster. He’s right of course - but that’s not the point.

‘Next?’ Calls a disinterested female voice and I abandon my F observation and turn towards the service desk, where a mid-twenties girl with badly coloured blonde hair, is looking at me as if I’ve just squatted and curled-out something unspeakable on the highly polished tiled floor.

Like all those slightly pretentious estate agents who had corporate makeovers a few years back and ended up with offices resembling a cross between a coffee shop and an internet café, this dealership has spent tens of thousands on prissy consultants in roll-necked sweaters, to colour co-ordinate the waiting area like some aborted television makeover show. The low-slung primary coloured chairs look about as comfortable as mounting a cheese-grater, and flashy plasma screen displays are hung on the walls running depressing daytime television. Mogadon for the masses.

My booking explained to the receptionist I’m given a raised eyebrow to interpret as to the wisdom of waiting and watching Jeremy Kyle while they test the exhaust for toxic emissions. I’ve some of my own I’d like to vent, but F is back at my side.

‘He was a bit rude.’ Whimpers F, indicating the still seated salesman. ‘I might have had fifty grand to spend.’
‘Books and covers.’ I tell him enigmatically.

The wasted money someone has splashed on the surroundings fascinates me, while the primary sales interface – the staff- are probably languishing on minimum wage. A sophisticated coffee maker and a sandwich and snack vending machine sit side-by-side, and a phalanx of screens with Play Station style controllers sit idle waiting for bored children to frag aliens.

‘No substitute for a skilled human.’ I tell F nodding towards the door.
‘Shall I drive?’ He asks enthusiastically.
‘Hell no, I said skilled.’