Modern times

Gone are the days when one could draw a cheque and get goods or services without much more than flashing a guarantee card. Or maybe a phone call to the manager: ‘Jimmy, I’m getting the new car tomorrow, so there’ll be a cheque coming through for £1000’. ‘Och, that’ll be fine, David: I’ll tell the lassies. Whit are ye gettin?’ This time the garage insisted on payment by debit card, so I duly switched the funds across (from a hotel room in the Loire valley equipped with a free wifie), following up with a call to the bank’s call centre ‘you’re through to Yassir this morning, can I have your name please?’ Said I was calling to give advance notice of a big transaction on the debit card: he wasn’t interested enough to take any action – or, more likely, wasn’t empowered to do anything that wasn’t on his scripted screen – saying that the merchant’s clearing service would sort it out with the bank. Delightful Edinburgh-Indian accent, though.

Turned up at appointed hour at the car shop to do the biz. Bank insisted on speaking to me. Wanted to know two characters from my memorable word ‘maybe your mother’s maiden name?’ Well, it wasn’t that or any of the other usual suspects. Cutting a long and stressful story short, I’d to go to a branch of the bank with ID and change the by now notoriously unmemorable word. 24 hours and a further list of questions later, eg middle name, postcode and address, what accounts I held at the bank (one of them for 38 years, btw), and what direct debits I had on my personal current account, I was finally allowed to complete the business. It’s bad enough dealing with the motor trade at the best of times, and when I finally left in my shiny new car, I was feeling really quite negative about the whole experience, and wondering whether it was worth the aggro and expense. I suppose one should be grateful for all the security measures. It would be nice, though, to think that they were there to help customers rather than to satisfy the bank’s lawyers and insurers.

Fortunately, the first few hours with the car were satisfactory. It feels very robust, it doesn’t rattle, and it goes where it’s pointed – including, fortunately, into the garage: I’d thought I might first have to take off the wireless aerial. It lacks a few of the toys fitted as standard to Egg2 like the rain-sensing wipers (which I didn’t really like) and the light-sensing gear for the headlamps (which I did). It has very peculiar arrangements in lieu of a handbrake, and it’ll take time to get the hang of the park-assist gizmo, which I may learn to love. I have it only because I wouldn’t get parking sensors in the back bumper otherwise, such being VW’s rapacious extras policy. (Funny that you get so much more as standard on their subsidiary brands, SEAT and Škoda.) We’ve gone for the no-nonsense version of the Tiguan that will actually go up and down bumpy hills, so it lacks the acres of chrome and poncey spoilers of the Chelsea Tractor versions. Can’t wait to get it into the Pyrenees! I wonder what’ll become of Egg1 – the auction ring, I expect. Although it drives better and far more economically than Egg2, it has a history of puzzling (is there any other sort?) electrical faults. And it rattles.

First art class of the new term yesterday. Miss had brought in a heap of fiendish objects to draw – sea shells, twigs, rat skulls, dried seaweed – so I did as I was told, sketching a couple of pieces, and using water colours for the first time in years. Absolute shite results of course, but quite fun to do. Then as usual I rebelled and slapped a bit more acrylic on the current work in progress, and think I’ve found a way to rescue it. Otherwise, it’s the bin, or a couple of coats of gesso prior to re-using the canvas for something else.

A bit of gardening this weekend, I think: I have three unexpected purchases to plant. I took Egg2 for a wash after getting it sorted on Tuesday (the 800-bomber sound effects from the a/c turned out to have been caused by a six-inch length of masking tape in the works: I suspect it has been in there since the car left the factory, but I coughed up for half an hour’s labour with relief and without demur). The car wash boys couldn’t change a £20 note, so I’d to go into the adjacent garden centre, where I found a lovely penstemon in a colour we hadn’t already got. I was so busy enthusing about penstemons with the cashier that I’d paid for it with a credit card before I remembered that that primary reason for going in there was to get change… Back in for a birthday card, and I was on my way. Yesterday I ran the new car down over the frontier to our nearest Lidl, and found they were selling phlox plants at interesting prices. Good news, because one of our flower beds is a bit short of late summer colour, and phloxes seem to do OK in our dreadful soil. So a spot of gentle gardening in prospect to help dispel the grumpy old thoughts of the last couple of days. Usually does the trick!