BEING THE figurehead of Clan Emissions, my wife has decided her bashed-up BMW estate is no longer adequate for her needs. I can see her point, writes Kilian Doyle.
It creaks and rattles like a wardrobe falling down the stairs and our children, grubby urchins that they are, have discarded so much half-eaten food in the back that it has its own eco-system, meaning we get followed by a flock of hungry seagulls wherever we go.
Worst of all, it has all the safety features of a fridge. The only airbags are the semi-deflated novelty balloons lodged under the passenger seat.
But what to replace it with? We need something big enough to carry two kids, their pals and assorted accoutrements, that does well over 40 miles per gallon. It can't drive like a bench on casters. And it can't be an SUV. I may be desperate, but I'll never be that desperate. While my requirements are secondary, I'd also prefer if I didn't feel the need to stick a bag over my head to drive it.
Most importantly, it can't be silver. Madam says she'd never find it in a car park.
Eventually, her research turned up a few suitable prospects. I winced at the MPV acronym, but I know my place.
At the first car lot, we were greeted by a goon in the cheapest suit ever made. It was shinier than burnished chrome and had been tailored to fit a walrus. He was nursing a potentially-terminal dose of hangoveritis. I wouldn't have bought a bar of chocolate from him, never mind a car. We left him to suffer in silence.
Next joint, the archetypal flash git awaited. Any more gold jewellery and he would've needed scaffolding to stand up. I trusted him as far as my toddler daughter could have flicked him with her eyelashes.
Still, he had the car we thought we wanted. "This one?" said he, his piggy eyes lighting up. "I'll get the keys."
As he rummaged in his portacabin, I checked it out. All the cars other than our intended target were parked under a canopy. It was suspiciously covered in raindrops. I brushed some off a door.
Scratches. I wiped another panel dry. More scratches. Same thing all over. The previous owner had either crashed into a barbed wire factory or been attacked by a posse of marauding MPV-hating cheetahs. I was halfway through deciding whether the huge dent in the bumper was bollard - or skull - shaped when he returned, with noticeably less spring in his step.
"Ah, sure it's a four-year-old car. You'd have to expect some wear and tear," he blurted as he saw my grimace. "How about a test drive?" said he, steering me away from the carnage.
I sat in the back with the kids, he sat up front alongside my wife.
She took off around the block. It soon became evident the paintwork was the least of his worries. The engine sounded so rough, had it been human, it would've been a drunk prostitute in a dockers' bar.
"It's like driving a van," said Madam, a former white van driver. I know my wife's mind. This was the kiss of death.
"What do you think?" the salesman asked my daughter with a slight tinge of desperation. "Don't like it," said she, giving him the stink-eye. My infant son merely farted. Good judges of character, that pair.
Back to the lot. Decamped without a word. He didn't even ask. He knew.
We left in the trusty old Beemer, which - to sentimental and stingy old me at least - had transformed itself while we were gone from a hopeless shed into a classy, efficient, desirable family stationwagon.
Madam, ruthless, merciless woman that she is, instantly saw through the poor yoke's pathetic ruse. The search continues.