Clifford the big red car!

Hi All, 

Leaving the office, the clouds were grey and certainly far from partying in the sky above Bedford this afternoon as I jumped out of a work colleagues new car as she dropped me to the car dealership. I thought about the first time I came here and how I missed my little orange Ford Fiesta, Vivienne. Alas that chapter had ended with the haulage truck turning up last week to take her away, sparing me the anguish of seeing her leave whilst I had gone off to get my hair done! 

As I skipped into the dealership I was excited to see my new arrival outside, glinting in the overcast silver sky. The cute little Fiat 500L in red was to be christened "Clifford". He is big. He is red. He is mine. The 1.3 liter, 5-door multijet needed to be moved closer for me to have a proper look around the car and following a visit to meet him on Wednesday of last week I finally got a chance to have a whizz around town. A full panoramic glass roof, touch screen on board computer system, cruise control and even a trusty CD player I was certainly glad of some of the mod-cons. With just over thirty-thousand miles on his 2013 plate clock, it was certainly a steal at £140 per month on a Hire Purchase finance deal. 


But I know what your thinking. With several grand sat in the bank, would it not have been better and more cost effective to put that money towards my new car, whatever it may be? However whilst I have essentially walked away not only unscathed but very-much essentially up on my investment, the money would be of much more use to me not tied up and with easy access should I need it in the future, that and the wedding would be nicely taken care of. Why didn't I consider a brand spanking new motor? The fact is that it would depreciate by over a third just by driving it off the forecourt which is always a huge factor in why I have chosen and will probably continue to choose to buy second-hand over new. 

That being said, my settlement doesn't make me stupid with money as the dealership found out in more ways that one. Following the visit to meet Clifford on Wednesday and our test drive, I was informed that there had been some minor damages on the vehicle and that they would be fixed before collection in a couple of days time, one being the rear brake light was cracked and the other being the front passenger seat belt casing was missing. Assured that the car would be fully checked and valeted as well before Clifford was ready to come home I was taken into the offices of Evans Halshaw Vauxhall in Bedford, offered a hot chocolate and the paperwork to sign and read through. 

However, reading down the page I could see that there was something blatantly obvious that had not been picked up and was potentially a huge issue. The Interest rate. Now cast your mind back to when I initially bought 
Vivienne I did not necessarily know about the best way to get finance on a car. I assumed, and rightly so I would be charged a slight premium for opting to go through the salesman who puts on their percentage, and then through the dealership who puts on their percentage to go to the finance company who, you guessed it, put on their percentage. But I never knew of the horrendous rate I was on until the accident. Nearly. Twenty. Percent. 

I was shocked, to say the least, and when I discovered what I had been paying for the two and a half years nearly I felt stupid. Normally I am so money conscience and always wanting to know if there is a way I can get it or a similar product cheaper or getting the best deal on something, only to be faced with an extortionate interest rate. Now I know that things were different back then and interest rates were higher, however when reading through the paperwork this time I was certain to make sure that the interest rate was no more than the ten-percent advertised by the saleswomen. But now, as I read through the pages and pages it stared be dead in the face. There it was in black and white. 12.9% APR interest rate. I asked why this was different to a few days ago when I initially enquired about the car and was met with a rude response. 

The rotund, grey-haired gentleman told me that it was what it was and it had always been that rate whether I was to borrow five pound or five thousand pounds. 
"Well it is only a three-percent difference, I can't see what the issue is?" He scoffed as I continued reading through, trying to work out my next move while deciphering the technical language and car jargon. 
"This is not was agreed or explained to me," I said boldly as I pushed the paperwork back across the desk. I stood up and thanked the sales lady for showing me the car and stated I would be in touch as the car was not the issue, the interest rate (and the old farts attitude) was. Spinning on my heels I turned and left, hoping they would call me back and offer a more reasonable rate. 

They did not, however arriving back home I had no sooner sunk into the black couch then I had a phone call. It was the finance manager. 
"I am sorry you have had this experience," he explained "I do hope that you will let me rectify this. You see I could essentially give you the car for 0% APR but that would mean I would be in negative commission and wouldn't make any money from the sale, so I am happy to beat the initial offer and settle at 9.9% if you are happy with this?" He continued. I thought long and hard about what he had to say. Time was running out on the hire car and I needed to make some decisions and fast. On agreeing that I was happy to settle at the now reduced rate (not that 0.01% is hardly a huge discount) I explained that considering I could go to a bank or online and get a loan for less than a third of what I was expected to pay, and I was already sensitive about the interest rate since last time I bought a car I was taken for a ride (I would excuse the pun but I love it too much)!

Happy I went along my merry way and was excited to pick up my car in a few days time once the work had been completed on the rear brake light and the front passenger seat belt casing. Although less than twenty-four hours after the APR debacle I had another phone call from the dealership. 
"So the front passenger seat belt casing will not be replaced due to the age of the car (its a 2013 plate car - less than six years old) but also because the part is a couple of hundred quid as the part comes only as a set and goes right the way under the seat." The sales lady explained. Fuming I ended the phone call and wondered what to do next. I had even less time now until my hire car went back and needed something soon. 

After getting some advice from work colleagues who knew the car industry well, I called the general manager of the dealership and asked why this could not be fixed as part and parcel of the works, considering all the issues I have had, and with special thought to the fact that whilst I am buying a used car, this was now a broken car with an issue that was not detailed on the pictures, nor on the information held on the website. Going off to investigate I was prepared to ask for something cheekily to be thrown in if they could not fix it free of charge, however I needn't have put on my boxing gloves, for when the manager called back moments later I was told that this would be done as soon as the part was in and without any cost to myself. 

With no noticeable damage or scratches to the paintwork and after being shown around and how to use him, I bid farewell to the sale lady (although I am certain she was more pleased to see me go) and with that, Clifford's almighty diesel engine steered me homeward bound. I am certainly looking forward to more adventures together, and hopefully even sharing it as Mr Warehouse and I expand our family in the future. Road trips, holidays and sneaky trips to the shops, I will be sure that Clifford and I will be riding high!

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx 

Game On!

Afternoon All, 

So another week down and this week we celebrate it being less than a month until Christmas, when that big guy comes down the chimney and we all end up stuffing our faces with yummy food. And while everyone else is flapping about shopping and plans and all the rest of it, I am cool as a kumquat as I have all mine in the bag, or sack as the case may be!

After spending the working week in finance as a credit controller, my team and I have had to get a grips with the new system that has been introduced which has been difficult but I am sure that by the time we all leave for the holidays we will have mastered its workings! Only having to work a three day week helped too though as I had taken Monday off for the photo shoot and then Friday for getting my hair done. Yes, I did it. Although the results were not as expected. Nearly four hours after firstly walking into the salon in Croydon and after being charged more than expected for a colour I didn't ask for it was safe to say I was aggravated. I said strawberry blonde not strawberry jam! I was so angry and upset I decided to hit the shops for some retail therapy, hoping to improve my mood, but it was a phone-call from that compatible lover himself, Mr. Cheese. After convincing me to come by his after I had finished spending more money he left me with the classic one liner that despite the colour of my hair, I would still look gorgeous. Since I was going to a big, corporate rugby match tomorrow (I know very posh) with his flatmate and parents I felt that this would be as good time as any and so bags in toe, I made my way from south London to his place and we spent the evening together snuggled up on the sofa, blankets and all, watching David Attenborough and eating pudding mis-mash. Bliss!

Saturday morning Mr. Cheese and I spent the whole morning lounging in bed, in between snuggles, sleep and seducing one another. Highlight of the morning definitely has to be my lover pointing at my waist and ordering me - 'Off!' Oh how I do enjoy being submissive. But not all the time - I like control too! Haha. After more napping and natter we got up and made some breakfast. Super healthy seeded bread (probably made by hippies in a caravan up a mountain) with what else than lemon curd smothered into its crustiness. Mmm. Settling back into the lounge with a mug of proper coffee and some toast I knew that things couldn't be easier than right then. After a while of watching telly and munching I suddenly realised what the time was. I had less that forty-five minutes to get ready and leave. That included make-up, lashes, nails, outfit and that all dreaded fire-extinguisher mane! Thankfully the stylist on Friday had styled it so that the big curls stayed in meaning I didn't have to do much but as Mr. Cheese, his flatmate and I left for the station I felt nervous about meeting his parents again with my new hair that I wasn't that confident in. But my hair wasn't the only thing I was troubled by; My nails were unpainted, m lashes were still in their box and my face looked like my cousin had done it. I was not feeling my best. But despite this I pretended and rocked the thrown-together outfit like I was in Dior and Versace.

Upon arrival at the stadium my feet were already killing and I was hoping that I could sit for a while before mingling with the corporate box hoo-ha's. I was handed my ticket which looked very posh and I entered a world I was unaccustomed to. Doing what I think every girl does in this situation I grabbed this opportunity with both hands and simulated that I knew what it was like to do this all the time, secretly being in awe of the fancifulness of such an invite. Meeting Mr. Cheese's father in the foyer I was quickly informed by Daddy Cheese that the whole room had heard about me and my blonde hair from him. Saying nothing more we turned and walked down the plush carpeted hall to the Presidents Lounge. Taking a seat I felt as if I had been told off and was annoyed at myself for disappointing his Dad with a blonde-bombshell expectation. Nevertheless I took the afternoon in my stride and even had a brief chat with Momma Cheese about how lovely it looked. I think she was trying to be nice. It was clear I came to that event with a tomato adorning my head. As the first course of dinner arrived I looked to Mr. Cheese for conversation but obviously he was engrossed in an already heated discussion of the football matches of the day and I knew from that point it would be a battle I would not win. Instead I noticed that the man drinking Guinness across from the table from me was looking as awkward as I felt. He was the owner of a large car restoration company whom Papa Cheese knew well and had invited both him and his wife along, although his wife kept company with Momma Cheese for the majority of the afternoon and into the evening. 

Finishing the meal just in time for a few drinks we entered the chilly air surrounding the stadium and took our seats. Not wanting Mr. Cheese's flatmate to feel out of place as a third wheel I struck up conversation about himself including all those lovely all-inclusive, first class, business trip's he gets to go on. Very envious. As the game commenced Mr. Cheese showed me some appreciated public affection with some cuddles and kisses. Watching and clapping as our home team took the lead we made small talk and enjoyed the classy atmosphere. Several times after chatting to the flatmate I would feel a little tug closer to my lover's body. A little jealous of some potential competition me thinks? I found it sweet that he wanted to protect me and keep me for himself, even if we aren't specifically exclusive - Yet. After the game we all headed back inside and this was when the evening got interesting. Under the watchful gaze of Momma Cheese I was questioned by my new-found, Guinness-loving friend about my employment and my family as well as my love-life. And yet again the dreaded question came up, ''How did you guys meet?''. 

Now whenever this occurs both Mr. Cheese and I have a plan. We understand that it is more widely accepted in the day and age that people meet online, but for kids of our age we feel that there is somewhat still a taboo that exists. Unfortunately our cover story of the butterfly bridge fist date did not work and like a dog with a bone the Guinness guzzling guy pestered until I stated we met online. It was only now I realised that the whole table was looking round at us, Master Cheese included. Blushing awkwardly and seeing that Momma and Papa had noticed as well I diverted conversation to something else. After that I felt Mr. Cheese's eye's keeping a watch on me as I continued talking to the man across me from the table. It was good to have especially when some lurid and rather blatant sexual remarks were made about my chest. I was flattered even if it was from an old man getting progressively more intoxicated by 'the black stuff'. I managed those comments well though and as a result didn't need my knight in the seat just next to me, although the squeeze of my thigh after shunning his advances did make me smile. 

As the evening drew to a close I noticed I had polished off a large bottle of wine and several strong cider's. I was drunk. and despite me slowing down on the booze it was too late the damage was done. I think I held my own though and came into my own skin, chatting and laughing at ease with people I had only just met. Sober thoughts set in as I wondered about being sick. Oh dear lord I was in front of Mr. Cheese's parents! What happens if they thought I was a alcoholic that couldn't handle a few glasses and bought me AA classes for Christmas and I don't mean for breakdown cover. I think I covered it well. I didn't fall over and I didn't make a complete tit of myself. Hopefully they will invite me again sometime. Such a wonderful afternoony-evening filled with good food, great company, flowing drinks and a great game of rugby. What girl doesn't enjoy watching hunky men run around in shorts getting muddy and hugging each other! None ...

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx