“Men like cars, women like clothes. Women only like cars because they take them to clothes.” Not.

Today was a first.

Not an exciting first, like the first time I bungee jumped, or the first time I sailed down the Nile, or the first time I skydived or the first time I climbed Mount Kilimanjaro.  To be honest there hasn't been a first for any of those either, but who knows what my future may hold.  The last one would be my choice if you were at all wondering.  No, this first was far more mundane. 

I was taking a car in for a service.

I've never owned a car and the car I would call my own actually very definitely belongs to my husband.  I know this, because he pulls rank on it every day when he uses it for his work rather than my trip to the garden centre, calling in on a friend for a cuppa along the way.  I also know this because when he scratches the car it's no big deal, but if I scratch it then something resembling an atomic explosion mushrooms from the mouth of a man who normally makes Switzerland look positively warmongering.  Actually, may I say here in the public world of blogging (even though it's only family and a few friends who see this)  I don't think I've scratched the last who knows how many cars we've had.  So there.  Probably because I don't get to drive them, but still!  So that's how I arrived at this age (wink) and have never taken a car in for a service.  It's his car, therefore his privilege.  But now I have a job and part of that job required me to drop off my employer's car in for a service.

This is not a service at the dirty garage at the bottom of the road but at an official dealership with dedicated professionals, (their words not mine) along with pride, expectations blah blah. To me it was a posh showroom with all these beautiful shiny new cars with their boots left open to show you just how little space there really is and for some reason that was supposed to make me want to buy one.  How is it that I never see all of these colours of cars on the road.  Where were all the silver ones?  There is a white one here with a bright pink roof.  Seriously.  It actually looks quite good apart from they made a terrible faux pas and accessorised with bright pink wing mirrors.  Eeeeeew.

You may not know this about me, as normally I ooze with confidence whenever you see me, but I'm a bit of a nervous one when faced with these kind of challenges.  Talking to people out of my comfort zone.  Driving into a manically busy car-filled area with no obvious place to park.  Wandering into the reception area to be met by a lady who looks remarkably like Paula from the TV show Stella, which fills my mind with all kinds of images (you need to have watched the show).  "You need to speak to me first" she informs me before ushering me to the seated area with a cup of tea and newspapers.  I smile inanely at the others waiting, hoping to find someone as nervous as myself only they don't make eye contact, so I pick up the only paper left.  Yuck.  It's the Daily Mail and true to form there's nothing worth reading except for the back page rant from Rafa Benitez, which doesn't take long enough, so I sit.  And think.  And sit.  And then I notice.  They've all got snazzy little folders!  And the floodgates open and worries come rushing through into my brain fortunately not reaching my eyes.  Oh no!  I left mine in the car.  Oh no!  There's this dawning revelation creeping up on me that I don't know the registration number and they're bound to ask for that.  Neither do I know the type of car, I'd be alright with the make because it's emblazoned everywhere around me, but the type!!! How stupid will I look.  "So which is your car madam?"  " Oh you now, that er... reddish one parked at a ridiculous angle blocking everyone else in.  You won't miss it!"  I casually glance towards the exit.  Can I slip past the Paula look alike and get all this info that I so obviously need.  Nope.  It's too late and they've accosted  called me.  I brace myself for the coming humiliation, remembering in the part of my brain that thinks twice as fast as in the normal world (now that would be a fun place to live) a tweet I had read that morning with a quote from my American pastor Al Jackson. "God, You give us grace to humble ourselves, so that we don't have to be humbled by You."  Here goes........

........ and it's all ok.  One signature.  Hand over the keys.  And I'm back in the waiting area, cup of tea in hand and wondering why the funky blue car with a white roof has been accessorised with fine looking chrome wing mirrors?

 It's obvious to me that they stereotypically think that women are really stupid  when it comes to cars and that when they buy the pink one they won't even notice that chrome wing mirrors are far more classy!