Is there anybody out there…?

Does anyone else, I wonder, feel that this recession has been just a little too easy? That might seem an odd thing for me to say considering that it cost me my job of twenty years, but hasn’t it been? For sure house prices have dropped a bit but my next door neighbour, keen to sell (was it something I said?) dropped his price fifteen thousand and got it gone pretty darn quick. That’s not much of a drop compared to the six figure rises that took place over the last ten to fifteen years. The dole queue went up a bit (this I know, having been on it) and then came down a bit. And sales of big ticket items (cars and holidays and whatnot) stalled quite badly and then got back into gear again.

This was the big one, this was the Great Depression of the 21st century. It brought banks to their knees and exposed trillions upon trillions of ill-advised lending, most of which was unlikely to ever come back. The country was in debt crisis, personal finances were in debt crisis, the balloon had well and truly gone up. Lots of scary graphs on the news, big red arrows pointing south, and worried small businessmen discussing cash-flow and debt restructuring.

And then… Nothing. A new government, a lot of stern talk about tightening of belts, new austerity, and then it was carry on chaps, nothing more to see here. Can it really be that easy?

It’s a question I ponder as I gaze out over the sea of polished metal on the other side of the plate glass windows of our modest showroom. Car sales has been quite good to me. The final quarter of last year spent trapped in the blind panic of needing to know everything instantly, and then I emerged into the new year finally getting some traction and powering forward. And I’ve shifted some cars I can tell you. Shifted some cars and earned some fairly decent money in the process.

Not now though. For the last couple of months it’s been scarily quiet. Not dead. But not far off. Like not seeing a soul all morning quiet. Not so good when you’re on a commission based income. I’m very lucky, I can live on my basic (and it is basic I can assure you), but there are one or two worried faces at work right now.

All of which makes me wonder, did we get off lightly last year? Or was the real recession simply postponed, put off like a debt addled household that managed to obtain another credit card in order to keep the plates spinning just that little bit longer.

Maybe the challenging times ahead we’ve been forewarned of for so long are finally upon us…

Modern technology

Cruising to The Blonde’s in my almost but not quite top spec Fiesta Zetec I decide to give her a quick call, let her know I’m on my way. Maybe she’ll put the dinner on. Time to employ a little technology, Ford style. I extend a digit and touch the voice control button on the indicator stalk that controls the radio, CD player, and the in-built hands-free car phone that links via Bluetooth to my mobile phone. This is properly trick kit. The radio mutes and the car emits a polite “bleep”.

“Phone” I intone, solemnly.

The current format does not support the command “track”.

What!? I said phone, not track! I press the voice control button again.

Bleep.

“Phone”

Phone

That’s better.

“Dial name”

Store name

“No not store, dial!”

Name please?

G’aahh!! “Cancel”

Command cancelled.

Bleep.

“Phone”.

Command please.

“PHONE!”

Phone.

“Dial name”

Store name.

“CANCEL!!”

Command cancelled.

Deep breaths. Calm, calm… Press button again. Bleep.

“Phone”

Phone.

“Dial name”

“Store name. Name please?”

No no no no NO! “CANCEL!!!”

Command cancelled.

Count to ten. Breath in through nose, and exhale.

Bleep.

“Phone”.

Phone

“Dial. Name.”

Dial name. Name please?

Yes, yes, YES! Now we’re cooking.

“Blonde home” (yes I really do have her as that on my voice dial).

Blonde mobile

Nooooooo….!

“CANCEL!!” You stupid stupid thing!

Command cancelled.

Unclench fingers from steering wheel and flex them gently. Control breathing. Press button.

Bleep.

“Phone”.

Phone

“Dial. Name.”

Dial name. Name please?

“Blonde home”

Tom home

AAAAARRRRRGGHH!!!!!!!!!!!

Bleep.

“P H O N E !”

Phone

D I A L. N A M E.

Dial name, name please.

B L O N D E. H O M E.

Blonde home. Confirm yes to dial?

Yes. Yes yes a thousand times yes!!

Dialling.

Brr brrr… brr.. brrr… click.

Hello The Blonde speaking (No she doesn’t really say that but you know, client confidentiality, Hippocratic oath, Date Protection, all that nonsense).

“Err, hi, it’s Charlie, just ringing from the car to let you know I’m on my way.”

“Hmmm… but you’re on my drive, I can see you.”

“Yes I know that, but I wasn’t when I started dialling you!!”

“Sorry?”

“Oh, look, never mind never mind.”

“You seem rather flustered and you appear to be phoning me from my drive, is everything ok?”

“Yes yes, it’s fine, absolutely fine.”

“Riiiiight. So are you coming in?”

“Yes yes, I’ll be right there.”

“Oooakay. I’ll put dinner on then shall I?”

“Good plan, see you in a sec.”

“Rightio, bye then.”

“Goodbye.”

The Blonde looks at me quizzically through the window as she hangs up and I climb out of my car.

Bloody technology, I’m calling from home before I leave next time!

The Breakfast Show

I glare balefully at my “Breakfast Bundle”. It had seemed such a good idea at eleven thirty last night when I was offered it on arrival, cornflakes and milk, a croissant, an orange juice, perfect, just the thing for a 5:30am start. The reality, however, isn’t quite living up to expectations. A soggy limp piece of pastry about the size of my little finger, no butter just a tiny pot of jam, a plastic tub of unidentifiable cereal with UHT milk, and a small carton of orange juice. The only thing remotely palatable is the orange juice. I crack open the top and take a swig. No, not even the orange juice. I set it down on the side next to the rest of the abandoned “Breakfast Bundle”, take a last glance around the clean but spartan room that reminds me of a Swiss prison cell (no idea why, I’ve never seen a Swiss prison cell), and head for the door, the corridor, the stairs, and finally the cool crisp damp morning air of the car park.

I love very early mornings, although ironically I really hate getting up early, which means I rarely get to see them. There’s a stillness and a sense that you’re all alone and getting a head start on the slumbering world that I find invigorating. I make my way to the fly splattered Fiesta Zetec, plip the central locking, dump my bag in the boot and drop into the driving seat. 30 seconds later I’m nosing out of the car park and urging the sat nav to get a fix so I know which way takes me to the motorway. John Cleese is as sleepy as me so I take a guess and swing right, out onto the main road, and call up all of my trusty Fords rampant 96 horsepowers, I’ll soon find out if I’m wrong. Two minutes later I spot a sign telling me to take the next left for the motorway, at that very moment John Cleese bursts into life “take the left left in 300 yards” he intones. Perhaps he saw the sign too.

I love motorways when they’re quiet, almost as much as I hate them when they’re busy. Hence the five o’clock kick off this morning. The Fiesta is far from the fastest car I’ve ever driven, but it settles into a comfortable 80+mph cruise and is recording 40mpg on the trip computer, figures I’ll hopefully be living with for the next 300 miles and four hours. As the sun rises and the countryside flicks by I ruminate on the past week and the reason for my double length of the country trek.

With the pressures of the new job on both time and energy, to my shame The Boychild hadn’t visited Croker Towers for almost a year. I’d (we’d) been to see him of course, but that’s never the same. So with school holidays looming The Blonde and I had managed to synchronise holidays and the school timetable and arrange to pick him up and run him back for a few days R&R chez moi.

We’d combined the run to get him with a visit to Bristol where we’d stayed in the excellent Bristol Hotel and spent a pleasant day catching up with an old friend of The Blonde for lunch and exploring the dockside. What they’ve created is very impressive, most cities with a river running through talk of regenerated docklands, vibrant cafe culture and living the urban dream, but in Bristol there’s a real sense that they’ve actually achieved it. The Blonde and I liked it there very much. That evening we dined in the excellent restaurant of the hotel, had a good nights sleep and then hit the road again. Boychild duly collected it was a late evening run back home sharing the driving.

Rekindling fatherhood each time The Boychild arrives is never easy. Each visit brings fresh challenges. In the early days he’d awake late at night crying hysterically for his mother until the early hours, refusing to be placated until he wore himself out, only to awake the following morning to a frazzled me without a care in the world. Once we were over that hurdle we went through the needing to be constantly stimulated and entertained stage, every activity spurned within half an hour in a constant quest for fresh endeavours.

Now we’ve hit teenage years he’s better able to keep himself amused, but the new challenge is connecting with him at all, as everything becomes “boring” and all he really wants to do is to immerse himself in Facespace and Mybook. I have to tempt him outside into the fresh air with a combination of blackmail and bribery. The first couple of days he was down it was abundantly clear he wanted to be anywhere but, counting off the hours till he could return home. Heartbreaking. Half way through the week, aided and abetted in no small part by The Blonde and her sons The Two Non Blondes, we had a bit of a breakthrough and fun was clearly seen to be being had. We even coaxed him into a long walk home after a fun afternoon out, a new world record in Boychild mileage.

The Blonde couldn’t make the return trip due to other commitments, hence my late evening run and overnight in the Swiss Travelprison, and my painfully early start.

It was paying off though, fiesty Fiesta hoovering up the motorway network as the traffic slowly begins to build. I just had to get through the madly busy sections before 8am and I’d be home dry. I keep the pressure on, dodging down lane three past dawdling middle lane hoggers, signalling left and cutting back into the empty lane one immediately ahead of them, they never get the message though.

Just as it seems that I’m through the worst and about to enter the last easy couple of hours disaster strikes, an overturned lorry on my side 100 miles hence. Only one lane open according to the traffic news, police on the scene, recovery in progress. Time to start thumbing through the options in my mind, ease off and hope it clears or keep the speed up and hope to get in among the inevitable traffic queue before it gets too long? Stick with the motorway and inevitable delay or try and cut off round hoping the time lost in diversion will be less than the time stuck? I keep the speed up, getting closer and closer, playing exit roulette. Do I swing off at the next one or hope to make it further down the far more direct and faster motorway before taking another exit?

I try and figure exactly where it is and how long the queue is by the traffic reports, one more junction, one more junction. I’m bearing down fast, maybe 30 miles away, when the news comes through, obstruction removed, three lanes open again, traffic moving but still big delays. Good work guys! I stick with it a bit further, services coming up, I must be nearly on it but is it clear yet? The radio has gone very quiet on the subject.

I take the slip road up to the roundabout and off into the services for a comfort stop, a break and a think. I don’t have to rejoin here, I can take a different route off the roundabout and attempt to head round it. My GPS has a route block avoidance program, I can use that. But am I going to drive miles at low speed to miss something that isn’t there? Decisions decisions. As I leave the services I spy a couple of big screens showing the Highways Agencies web site detailing all hold ups. I check the motorway I’m on, no delays. Decision made I’m back in the car, round the roundabout and straight down the sliproad and back up to speed. For about three minutes until it all comes to a complete standstill. Bugger. Wrong choice.

I stop start crawl for forty five minutes, cursing the Highways Agencies and their stupid map all the way. Traffic reports are filtering through again, apparently there’s a hold up about where I am. Really? Eventually I break through and the rest of the trip proves uneventful. I slide the Fiesta back onto the drive next to my pretty little MX5 and climb out. Job done till next time, now for a proper breakfast…

Zoom Zoom

“Feel the difference” is Ford’s current strapline, the marketing banner under which all advertising media is placed. Peugeot sail under the flag “Emotion in Motion”, Mazda weave “Zoom Zoom” through their promotion and BMW brand themselves “Joy Machines”.

The thing is, it’s not obvious what exactly we’re supposed to be feeling when we’re searching for the difference, there doesn’t seem to be much emotion in a 207, a Mazda CX-7 is more “screaming kids” than “Zoom Zoom” and I can’t imagine your average sales rep finding much joy in his base model 318i stuck in another ten mile tailback on the M6 on a wet and miserable Monday.

All of which leads us to the obvious and hardly revolutionary conclusion that most marketing buzzwords and power phrases are just bollox really, a nonsense dreamt up by an overpaid advertising exec to convince his client that he is “on message” with their product and can create a new and exciting Zeitgeist for the entire product range with one catchy slogan.

Which brings us spiralling in the general direction of the Mazda MX5, perhaps the one car that could actually live up to its marketing tag, the exception, perhaps, that proves the rule. I’d fleetingly considered one during my varied and random thoughts toward a fun toy for the summer, an idea quickly discarded due to vague prejudices about Japanese blandness, an Oriental attempt at a faux British roadster. Trouble is, there’s no discounting the logical argument that they are (comparatively) cheap to buy, (comparatively) cheap to run, reasonably quick and with a terrific reputation. So when a tidy low mileage three year old MK3 example came in at a sister dealership in part exchange, and since The Blonde and I were passing on our way to Southampton anyway, it seemed worth giving it a quick punt up the road just to dismiss it once and for all.

We rolled up at the dealership mid morning and my colleague showed us to the car, gave us a quick demo of the hood (prod a release button, flick the catch back and drop the whole lot back behind the seats, five seconds flat), passed me the trade plates and left us to it. There was no denying it was a pretty little thing, more so still with the top down and we climbed in (well, fell in, MX5′s are a long way down the first time you get into one) to be greeted by a minimalist and stylish interior, comfortable supportive seats, and a proper sportscar driving position, all low slung, stubby gearshift and sporty wheel. It had a feeling of rightness to it, a feeling of, well, a feeling of Zoom Zoom.

We got comfortable (we’re tall people and the MX5 is a small car, we fitted, but only just) and I twisted the key, the 2.0 litre twin cam engine firing into life with a throaty bark. Palming the short little lever into reverse I backed it out of the line of cars on display and wound it out of the sales lot. We bimbled down the road getting used to a car quite different in character to either my company Fiesta or The Polite Hatchback.

Out of town I gently increased the pace, feeling the wheels pattering along the road surface telegraphing the topography straight through to us through firm (but never harsh) suspension, steering almost telepathic in its accuracy and directness, seeming to turn the car almost before I moved the steering wheel, placing me easily and eagerly on trajectory. Slotting up and down the gearbox was a joy, the short shift having an almost military precision to it. My prejudices melted into the roof down open air breeze. Snick snick, Zoom Zoom.

Warming more and more to the happy little car I pointed it at the dual carriageway and gave it some revs. As the gutsy engine barked some more and the speed piled on disaster struck. Even with the windows up, once we passed 45mph it just got too windy, buffeting us from all sides, The Blonde in particular suffering from a strange sensation of being beaten firmly over the head by some weird aerodymamic force, severe enough that despite slowing down and pulling off at the next exit she suffered a headache from it that lasted the rest of the day.

Deflated, we turned and soft pedalled the car back to the dealership at low speed, nice try but a non starter, if we couldn’t travel any distance with the top down it was simply a no go. Unaware of the fail, the little car continued to zoom zoom, but more quietly now as we crept back and reluctantly raised the hood and returned the keys.

And that was that.

In theory.

The trouble is that Zoom Zoom is infectious, it gets under your skin and into your blood. The desire to Zoom Zoom again stays long after the car has gone. And after our holiday and after returning to work and normality, the Zoom Zoom continued to gently but persistently itch. Along with a memory of what a huge difference the wind deflector (a large mesh grille that fits directly behind the front seats and kills the backdraft vortex effect of air whipping over the screen and straight to the back of you head) made in my old Audi Convertible of a few years ago. I hit the Internet and the MX5 sites, had anyone fitted a larger deflector, and did they have much effect? A few replies, mainly positive. Maybe it would work. Was it worth the risk?

I thought about it a while more, and a couple of weeks later, since I happened to be in the area with friend James on the way back from another adventure, we swung by for another drive. My colleague tossed me the keys and went to find the trade plates, he didn’t seem surprised to see me back. We punted back out along the same roads and James tried holding the price board up between the seats as an experimental makeshift deflector, did it help? A little, it was hard to tell. I swung off the dual carriageway and took a B road detour back to the garage. The Blonde likes to travel the way she seems to glide through life, serenely and gracefully, and I mollify my driving to suit. James on the other hand has a fire breathing chest beating rolling thunder of a TVR, he clearly has no such reservations. I snick snicked down from fourth to second and gave the gutsy little car it’s head.

Zoom Zoooooooooooooooooooooooommmm!!

Now the car is causing me mild discomfort around my head, my face aches from grinning. I no longer just want this car, I need it.

That night I talk with The Blonde some more. I look at different wind deflectors, read more reviews, get insurance quotes, everything stacks up and I’m sure we can overcome this turbulence issue. Hopefully.

The next day I talk to the dealer and a deposit is placed, the day after that I visit the bank and raid my savings. I arrange a service and for a proper Mazda full sized clear perspex wind deflector to be fitted and we sort out the paperwork. But they can’t get the job done for a week, dammit!

The following day sweet nothings are whispered in the ear of the service advisor, strings are pulled, queues are jumped and two days after that my gorgeous little gunmetal grey sportscar is delivered to my dealership. It’s beautiful and it sits in the carpark winking amiably at me whenever I look out of the window at it. Which happens a lot. “Zoom Zoom” it winks, “come on, zoom zoom”. I leave early, I take the long way home, I grin, a lot.

That night I collect The Blonde. Roof down, wind deflector firmly in place, we sidle through the quiet evening out of town, heading for the dual carriageway. We’ve pressed the gamble button and the reels are spinning, will they land all cherries? Only one way to find out, I point the nose up the sliproad and ease on the power, snicking through the gears, fingers tightly crossed on the short stubby lever.

Thirty, forty, fifty, I glance across, we’re at discomfort speed but The Blonde squeezes my hand “it’s ok” she says, “so much better”. I press on, sixty, sixty five, hardly daring to go on. I hold my breath and ease it up to seventy, if it’s working now we’ve cracked it. I look across and she smiles, “no problem” she says, “it’s breezy but it’s absolutely fine, I can’t believe how different it feels”. I breath out, my relief is palpable and just briefly I gun the cheery car up to seventy one. Ish. We’ve cracked it! Phew!

I back off and slide off down the next slip road, pulling into a quiet turning and switching off the engine. I kiss The Blonde and hand her the keys before climbing out and swapping seats. It’s her turn to go Zoom Zoom. She runs the car smoothly and with ever increasing confidence down to the next town and we stop for some photos for the album. Then back to Blonde Towers where I give The Two Non Blondes (her sons) a ride out each. They approve. I run the car home late that night, roof down in the cool dark air, park it and pull the hood back into place before standing briefly and looking at it. It winks at me again, “good choice” it says. I have to agree.

Next day it’s back to reality and back to the Fiesta for the short commute to work. I can’t really take the Mazda in I’ve decided, we’re a Ford dealership, and anyway I’m saving it for high days and holidays, the Fiesta is for mundanities, commuting, shopping and general running about.

Five minutes later I’m halfway to work, the hood is down and the engine is growling happily to the tune of my right foot, a big silly grin plastered across my face.

Zoom Zoom!!

A happy anniversary

I sat in the cool quiet reception area of the spa and healthclub in a contemplative mood. The Blonde was still getting changed after our early morning swim to work up an appetite for a big cooked breakfast after a night of unmitigated luxury at the Devere Grand Harbour Hotel in Southampton. We’d escaped for a couple of days break, well earned after a frankly manic March of car sales (March being the first month of the new registrations, this year 10 plate). The Blonde, on the other hand, is always flat out busy so deserves a break any time of year. I reclined slightly in the comfy chair as I considered the fact that, coincidently, our five star getaway came almost exactly a year after I was made redundant.

Those that have been with The Blog from the very beginning will appreciate the gulf between job centres and job seeking that began at that time, and the sumptuous surroundings I now found myself in. It’s funny how life twists and turns, and it feels very much to me that one enjoys the up’s far more as a result of experiencing the downs.

The previous evening had been spent in the exemplary company of good friends at the Jolly Sailor, scene of the eighties-tastic Howards Way, and we had a clear day ahead of us before joining more good friends that night in Dorset. A tour of nearby Ikea beckoned, before we headed off to Portsmouth and Port Solent, a wonderful complex of shops, restaurants and houses set around a large marina. A sad reminder of the economic times awaited us however, as probably a third or more of the units of this once bustling oasis of leisure and retail stand silent and empty. We’re a long way from the edge of the financial woods yet, despite politicians and estate agents desperate efforts to talk up the market. All the talk in the world doesn’t create hard cash or financial liquidity, the lifeblood of the world of commerce.

Leaving Port Silent behind us we headed back along the M27 and up into the beautiful picture postcard countryside of Dorset, complete with achingly pretty villages and chocolate box cottages. Another evening of good food and great company, a comfortable night in their wonderful old farmhouse, and we were off again the following morning, stopping off at Shaftesbury to walk down Gold Hill, scene of the famous Hovis “Bike” advert, “T’was like taking bread to the top of the world, t’was a grand ride back though”.

Clarks retail outlet village in Somerset was the next stop, where I made out like the proverbial bandit, The Blonde finding it somewhat less fruitful unfortunately, coming away only with an admittedly fetching summer hat.

Then it was the long run home and a quiet night in before back to the reality of work and the real world the following day.

T’was a grand break though, and a world and a half away from life just twelve short months ago.

Scribe

Great news. You may recall the article that I’d been working on some little while ago for The Editor. Well after a lot of work it’s finally been accepted for publication and is going to be a six page spread in the magazine. Very exciting!

Not only that, we’re already discussing my next assignment!

It’s still very early days on the writing front and I’m far from counting any chickens, but this feels like a little progress at last and I’m desperate to get stuck into another article to try and keep the momentum going. The way I figure it, it’s potentially much easier to further a writing career as a published writer, rather than just an aspiring writer. If I can get a few decent articles published I may just be able to refer to myself as the former, which I hope will help.

I’m not sure yet when the article is set to be published, but I can’t wait to see it in print!

Managing expectations

My new manager has pulled a bit of a blinder on my company car front. Well aware of my displeasure in recent Fusion motoring he was gently “encouraged” to steer acquisition of my new steed firmly in the direction of a Fiesta, ideally with a decent (read Zetec) spec, bigger engine if poss, and the Bluetooth handsfree phone connection would be a bonus. Wrap it up in a nice shade and he can colour me happy.

It took a few weeks but he did it. It sat outside, dark smokey metallic grey, the more powerful (that’s more powerful, not actually powerful) 1.4 engine, Zetec spec giving air con, alloys, computer thingummy, interior lighting pack (footwells, submarine lighting and so forth), bits of chrome trim and whatnot. And it came fitted with the all important Bluetooth, which automatically adds a much nicer central dash display, rear stereo speakers, and voice activation and dialling (touch the button on the indicator stalk and say “phone”, “dial number”, “Blonde” and I’m talking to herself in moments). Seems recent sales success hasn’t gone unnoticed, or unrewarded (quite apart from the increased commission payments).

The irony of it all is that barely two years ago I was cruising a beautiful Audi A4 convertible, midnight blue, Bose hi fi, heated seats, the works. Had anyone suggested then that a Ford Mondeo would be the order of the day I’d have been distraught. Now I’m eying up my new Fiesta and it feels ok.

Partly it’s down to changed circumstances. Back then I was using my car to go places for work, and had to look the part when I got there. Now I use the Fiesta to drive ten minutes to work in the morning and it sits round the back till it’s time to drive ten minutes home again, or fifteen minutes to Blonde Towers.

But it’s more than that, it’s all to do with expectations. Back then I was dealing with some financial heavyweights, most of those customers drove cars four times the price of that Audi, and often had something even more expensive tucked away for high days and holidays. It’s funny how the cars of those around you go toward setting levels of aspiration. Now I’m surrounded by new and used Fords and have customers rolling up in £200 scrappers in the forlorn hope of cashing in on the end of the scrappage scheme (now ended). Against that backdrop a new mid range Fiesta feels a perfectly reasonable steer.

It’s not just a matter of prestige however. That Audi was a seriously high quality piece of kit and, all questions of value, worth, or prestige aside, it was something I took great pleasure in running. It was a car I’d drive when I had no where to go just for the sake of enjoying the drive, and trips became as much about the journey as the destination.

But times have changed as have, for the moment, aspirations and expectations. And to that end the Fiesta is fine. It’s a looker (far nicer than any mainstream shopping trolley has any right to be), it’s a decent drive, goes ok, and has just about enough toys to keep my interest. In these new times of austerity it more than does the job, and to my own surprise I’m happier with it that I ever thought I could be.

Da Management

The big news at the dealership is a change of management! The previous manager decided he’d had enough of targets and paperwork and quit quite suddenly. A minor company game of management musical chairs ensued, and the manager of a smaller provincial dealership arrived a few days later to take the reins.

Young, keen, earnest and professional, this guy is chalk and cheddar to the outgoing manager, like-able chap though he was. Suddenly we’ve got someone who’s always there, always helping, always supportive. He’s taken some of the admin workload weight and he’s very much there to help us do business. And the difference is immediately apparent, my personal sales are up a good fifty percent, this last four weeks being my busiest ever by some margin on used cars (which, oddly, seems to be where the money is to be made rather than new).

I’m also starting to see some decent money from this, always a strong motivator.

As to the job itself, well I’m half a year in at the end of this month, remarkably. The paper-trial doesn’t get any easier (albeit helped slightly by the new boss) but I feel on top of it as regards used cars, and definitely getting there with the new stuff. However the ease that knowledge and ability bring is offset by the quantity brought on by increased sales. And Motability sales remain a black art of form filling, computer inputting and organisation that I’d rather steer well clear of for the moment.

So the overview halfway through my first year is one of a continued building of success, very much aided and abetted by the change of boss. The mechanics of the job are not too difficult once grasped, there’s just so very much of it and the skill seems to be in the juggling of it all and making everything happen on time which can get a little stressful. All in all though, it’s a positive vibe and we’ll see how the summer pans out.

So far, so good then, and with the support I’m now getting I believe it can only get better.

Fusgon

Text time: 15:32
Text recipient: The Blonde
Text content:

Hahaha, just sold the dreaded Fusion.
HAHAHAHA!!!
xxxxx

Message ends.

I disposed of the Fusion within 48 hours of being told that the only way out of it was to sell it. Its new owners a young couple with a new baby who just want simple cheap reliable transportation. Perfect. I even demonstrated the fold flat front seat as an ideal baby changing table. I have no shame when it comes to the politics of company cardom.

I drove off the forecourt that evening in a pale metallic blue Fiesta 1.4 Zetec with Bluetooth and voice activation. It felt like a result. My last comments to the sales manager were to the effect that I would be seriously unimpressed if its replacement was a similarly utilitarian box on wheels. He joked that he was going to find the car we’d had longest in stock and give me that from now on as clearly this was the secret weapon in terms of shifting undesirable metal. I laughed, nervously, and quickly changed the subject.

New company car Monday, fingers crossed…!

Fast learner.

We were doing well over 100mph in a dark blue Focus ST when we came across the brow and met the obstruction…

Yup, I’m back at the Henry Ford College for more Ford Motor Company indoctrination, I mean product knowledge, and after a classroom based morning learning about Ford finance, latest technology, Internet selling and showroom etiquette we’re onto the practical stuff, learning about Ford and their competition, plus a couple of items of entertainment, hot laps in a high performance Ford being one of them.

The racing driver sat next to me in the driving seat went from full throttle in fourth to hard braking with a delicious crackle from the twin pipes. A beautifully smooth shift into third, flick flack through the coned chicane and back onto the power to a hard warble from those twin exhausts. More firm braking and the car is tipped into a tightening right-hander at a frankly unfeasible speed, and I’m pressed hard into the left-hand bolster of the Recaro passenger seat, weight of my crash helmet pulled toward the window as the power goes back on and the car dances through the apex of the curve in a perfect four wheel slide. My very own personal Stig apologised that it wasn’t a Focus RS this session, but from where I sat, grimly hanging onto the grab handle, it felt plenty quick enough.

Two minutes later we’re back in the pits and I’m getting my breath back as the next victim climbs in. I stand and watch as the car moves gently out of the pit lane onto the track and the back end dips slightly as full throttle is applied once more. The car rockets off up the straight, banshee howl punctuated by a fast change into third at the red line and then fourth followed by a stab of brake light as it disappears over the crest toward that coned chicane. Awesome!

Prior to that I’d been driving the track myself in fast convoy with about twenty other cars, half of them Ford Fiesta’s, half VW Polos. The idea was to highlight to us the superb driving dynamics and superiority of the Fiesta over the competition, and the Polos had been drafted in to make the point. The Fiesta is a really great car on the road, and so it proved on the track, instructors at each end of the convoy were the racing drivers piloting the Focus ST’s that were to provide the hot laps later, and they weren’t hanging about. I drove a Fiesta first and just as on the road it sits on tip toe, steered by the fingertips and instantly responsive to input. It would be interesting to see how the Volkswagon compared. After a spirited lap we trailed back into the pits and all swapped cars, Fiesta drivers piloting Polo’s and vice versa.

But as I sat in the Polo waiting for the off I noticed something interesting. The Fiesta’s were all Zetec S’s, the sports model with the biggest engine (1.6 turbo diesels in the cars provided), bigger wheels with wide low profile tyres for enhanced grip, and lowered stiffened sport suspension for flatter keener cornering. Just the job for track work. But what were these Polos? Plastic wheel trims were the first clue, asthmatic engines the second, they’d pitched the sporty Fiestas against Billy Basic bottom of the range Polo’s, narrow of tyre, soft of suspension and three cylinder petrol of engine. Not that far off half the price of those top spec Fiesta’s then, so hardly a shock that they didn’t compare out on the track. Come on Uncle Henry, have the courage of your convictions, if you’re going to sell us on the Fiesta’s superiority at least go like for like. Would a base model Fiesta Studio with the equivalent 1.25 60hp petrol engine have put up quite as convincing a case? We’ll never know.

I did smile to myself as I spotted the ESP button in the little VW though, that much trumpeted safety feature of my last Ford experience, standard in the most basic of Polo’s, and, err, optional extra on even the top end performance Fiesta… (In fairness they are going to be bringing this in to the standard specification shortly, and rightly so).

Car football was a welcome and fun diversion. Intended to demonstrate the nippiness of a Ka we were given a target time of 40 seconds to punt a huge inflatable football down a course, 360 degrees around an inflatable Fiesta, and then punt it into an inflatable goal. My time of forty one seconds had to be unassailable. Three people got it in dead on forty…

Other highlights were a road drive comparison test of a Focus against key competition. I tried a Peugeot of some sort, pleasant enough car but fair enough, the Focus bests it. Then a similar set up with the Ka against small car competition. A Vauxhall Agila was my steed for this event, and the Ka does feel and drive better, but it’s hard to argue against the back doors and extra space in the Vaux. Tiny bit cheaper than our Ka too (and interesting, incidentally, to see that Vauxhall offer a “price guide” to download from their site, not a price list. Doesn’t smack of confidence).

All in all an interesting visit, albeit with a degree of overlap to my last course (which was intended purely for newcomers to the marque, this one an update for all Ford sales employees).

That should be about it for training in the short term, back to the showroom now to put into practice my newly generated enthusiasm for all that is Blue Oval.

Quite fancy a Focus ST though, wonder how many cars I’d need to sell before I could negotiate one of those as my company car..!