A little romance can go a long way. Indeed it can, as Kilian Doyle found with his Valentine's gift of pragmatically romantic (if unribboned) gift of a shiny 'new' motor for herself at home
There's an episode of The Simpsons in which Homer gives his wife Marge a birthday present of a bowling ball with "Homer" engraved on it. She is livid.
"Well, if you don't want it," says he, feigning hurt, "I know somebody who does..."
I'm telling you this because I am, to my shame, a bit of a Homer. My Valentine's Day gift to my wife this year was the motoring equivalent of the monogrammed bowling ball.
I am the proud owner of a 1990 BMW E30 316i. She's a little beauty, nippy and stylish. While I am exceedingly fond of her, I have for some time hankered after a Touring version, primarily for surf trips. I could fit four surfboards in the back, and still have enough room to sleep if I were stuck for a place to stay. (That should, of course, read: Too stingy to pay for a B&B, too unsociable for a hostel, too lazy to pitch a tent.)
Thus was my quandary. I yearned for a Touring, but I didn't want rid of my coupé. But how to justify owning two cars? Simple. Dress it up as a gift, and nobody will ever suspect you have anything but the most altruistic motives. I'd buy the Touring as a "present" for the wife and then requisition it when the surf was firing. Genius.
"Darling," said I a while back. "I think you need a new car."
"I don't want one," answered herself. "My old hatchback is fine."
"But it keeps breaking down and I'm worried it'll fold up like tinfoil if you crash. And you couldn't have that could you, not now that we have the baby?" (Note the psychology? Cunning, eh?)
"Nonsense. You're just angling for an excuse to buy yourself an estate for surfing, aren't you?" said she. Sharp as a razor, the wife.
I was forced to own up to my devious plan. Eventually, she agreed to let me buy her a car. Not only that, she left me thinking that by promising to pay all the taxes and upkeep on it I'd got a good deal. As I said, sharp as a razor, the wife. Armed with my mandate, I went hunting. And hunt I did. Months of trawling the Irish car ads trying to find an immaculate 318i Touring yielded nothing of worth. I went to view a few that looked promising on paper, but always came back disheartened.
(A quick tip to anyone selling a car - wash it first. And don't lie. One blaggard told me the "one previous owner" of his car was an elderly Indian gent somewhere in rural England. Which explained why it had lowered suspension, a massive bucket exhaust, four hideously kerbed alloys, hand-tinted windows and a sound system loud enough to knock over a small church.)
Exasperated, I decided to look further afield. Sourcing the car in Britain appeared my best option. British motorists, with their "prevention is better than cure" attitudes, are generally regarded as being more fastidious than the Irish about cars. Even with factoring in the cost of getting it home and VRT, I estimated I could get an impeccably maintained car with a full service history for the same price as the tappety old rust-buckets I was being offered at home.
With a little advice from the kindly folk on the message boards of the BMW Owners' Club and the E30 Zone, I eventually came across the website of Old Colonel Cars. (oldcolonelcars.co.uk)
And there it was - a mint condition 1990 BMW 318i Touring with a lustrous love-heart red paintjob. All for £1,295 (€1,900). Score.
The timing was perfect - I could book flights and ferries and have it back in front of the house tied up with a big red ribbon just in time for Valentine's Day. How could I lose?
I rang the Old Colonel, who turned out to be a chap called Andy Miller who was flogging beemers out of his garden near Luton.
Now, I'm well aware all the advice is to get an expert to look at a car first before you buy it. The RAC and AA do just such a service for a reasonable fee. I have to confess I'm far too impulsive (or should that be compulsive?) to go that route. I decided to take a gamble and put a deposit on it there and then.
I wasn't disappointed. Andy picked me up in the car at Luton airport as promised. It took me all of two minutes to deduce he was a straight-up chap. The car was even better than he'd described. After a quick test drive, I paid up and was on the road within half an hour. As I said, I took a gamble. And I got lucky. Hopefully, if you choose to buy abroad, you'll get lucky too. Suffice to say, I know where I'll be going for my next one.
The 260-mile journey to Holyhead was uneventful, other than heading 10 miles south on a motorway I should have being going north on. This is too easy, said I, tootling off the ferry in Dublin a mere 12 hours after picking up the car.
Only then did I twig that I'd forgotten the ribbon. Opportunities to buy them are few and far between at 7am on a Sunday. "Ach, it doesn't matter," said I. "It's the thought that counts." I was so tired I had even managed to convince myself I was being romantic.
The wife, pleased though she was, saw through my faux generosity.
We have a tradition of naming cars in our family. Mine is called the Bavarian Princess. Herself took one look at the one I'd presented to her and named it . . . Homer.