Custom. Car.

House-hunting and car-hunting today. We looked round just one property, a ‘custom’, i.e. designed by its first owner. Grand Designs it wasn’t. Looked like someone had scribbled a few randomly interconnected squares and rectangles on a piece of paper then given it straight to a builder – clearly no architect worthy of the name had been near it. Ah well. Another one crossed off the list.

Then on to a car dealership, where we were looked after by Janice (not her real name, but if you’ve ever watched Friends you may know who I’m thinking of). She had the look – big hair, perfect teeth, immaculate make-up – plus a Noo York accent to die for. She found us baffling yet amusing. The most neutral of remarks from us caused her to throw up her manicured hands and cry ‘You’re funny!’

To be honest she had some trouble even hearing us. American ears are accustomed to a different pitch and louder volume. And when we were audible she didn’t necessarily understand what we were saying.

But perhaps the biggest problem as far as we were concerned was that she didn’t seem to know anything about the car she was trying to sell us. Or cars at all, really. She told us she used to be a mortgage broker (as recently as last week, perhaps?).

She was very nice, though. Poor lady – a car sales rookie, and she gets landed with two clueless, mumbling foreigners as her first clients. As we drove away from the lot, without a new car, we saw her hovering on the forecourt with a coffee and a cigarette, recovering.