Guilty confessions from the owner of a dirty car

Actually, that’s not true because I didn’t own it at all. When I was a young man in the 1990s and had just secured my first job, I needed a motor. Back then, dealers were offering hire purchase deals which included three years free insurance and tax with new models, a strong attraction for a novice driver.

But, of course, there were catches. If I exceeded 12,000 miles a year, I had to pay a financial penalty and the car had to be brought back to the showroom once a year so its condition could be inspected. At the end of the three years I had the choice of buying the little purple Ford Fiesta outright or handing it back.

The truth was, however, that I had over-extended myself. Even with the free tax and insurance, the monthly payments were prohibitive to my meagre wage at the time. So, at the end of the three years I returned the car and began the search for a new, more modest model.

Having virtually no experience in such matters, I went back to the same dealer and salesman who had leased me the expensive car. He was of a similar age to me and perhaps sensed some fragility on my part. He smiled.

‘So,’ he began. ‘You’re on the hunt for a new motor?’

‘No,’ I responded proudly, quickly picking up the preferred vernacular. ‘I’m on the hunt for an old motor.’

He was momentarily confused but quickly regained his composure.

‘But you want to upgrade, right?’

‘Not at all,’ I beamed. ‘I want to downgrade.’

This pleased him not. We then had a very awkward conversation where he tried to explain to me that what I was suggesting is not ‘what people do’. He used the example of property to illustrate his point.

‘You wouldn’t try to buy a smaller house than the one you’re in, would you?’

‘Why not?’ I replied. His answer of ‘Well, you just wouldn’t’, I found unsatisfactory.

In the end the conversation went nowhere, and no car was purchased. I subsequently went to a different showroom and pretended I had never owned a car before while buying an old Renault Clio at a much more affordable rate. I drove that car happily for a long time before it was burnt out in a petrol bomb attack while I was covering a riot in Belfast.

In the years since, I have owned an array of banged-up cars. I’ve often returned in my mind to the conversation with that young salesman who could not seem to grasp my conviction that I wanted to buy a cheaper car. Of course, much of his motivation was undoubtedly financial, spurred by the hope of a decent commission, but I think there was also an element of mindset. To him, a car was a representation of status and he could not comprehend how someone would want to reduce that in the eyes of others.

I have never felt that way. In my choice of vehicle, I have always tried to balance the competing interests of affordability, reliability and safety. I have never given a thought to any correlation between my motor and the image it projects to others, nor drawn any link between the size of engine and my physical prowess or personality.

Perhaps it is an extension of this semi-detached approach that means I don’t give enough attention to the cosmetic state of my vehicle. Or to put it another way, I own a dirty car.

This makes me a bit of a pariah in my street, where most of the neighbours keep immaculate vehicles. There is a man who lives close by who washes his car in his driveway every Sunday morning. I often pass him when I’m going to the shop to buy breakfast and make the joke that he can start on my car when he is finished with his own. Gamely, he always pretends to laugh along. Every few months, he spends a day waxing his car, as if to exaggerate the difference between his model and mine.

I usually get my car washed for the MOT. I have never been sure whether this is a requirement for the test or just something people do out of habit. I remember once the motorist in the lane next to me spraying the inside of his motor with lemony scent just minutes before the test. Whether it made any difference to the final outcome, I cannot say.

A couple of years ago I made a miscalculation over the hour of the MOT. This meant I had to rush to get there and had no time to get my dirty car washed. I drove into the huge warehouse and braced myself for the worst.

At the end the man in blue overalls approached me wearing a grim expression.

‘The underside of your car is not clean,’ he began.

‘I know…I’m really sorry.’

‘What do you think it’s like for me having to go under that car?’

‘Not nice,’ I mumbled, staring at the floor like a chastened schoolboy.

Then, he printed out the certificate which said I had passed my MOT and I happily went on my way.

I am buying petrol when I notice the white van parked in the drive-through carwash. I am not sure why, but suddenly I am overcome with a determination to clean my car. I find myself thinking about the argument of the salesman all those years ago. I would not let my house get into such a dirty state, why do I accept it with my car?

I stride into the little shop and ask for a car wash token. The woman behind the counter looks at me sheepishly.

‘The man’s in there.’

‘Uh…ok,’ I splutter, slightly disarmed at this odd reply. ‘Well, maybe I can go in after.’

‘He’ll be in there all day, I imagine.’

‘What? How dirty is his van?’

‘No, he’s fixing the carwash, it’s broken.’

I wander off, mumbling about how she could have just told me that at the start. I drive my dirty motor away – it clearly wasn’t meant to be.