"Look, see, no problems at all" - says the car salesman who took us for a test drive in a car Mr T was considering buying. He was right, there were no problems, not with the car, anyway. Just with him, driving at 60mph down a 30mph street, in an untaxed car, arms raised to show it'd go in a straight line. And then he slammed his foot down on the brakes, stopping just short of the car in front of us. I am not a nervous passenger but I was fucking terrified.
Before this, we'd had a brief jaunt round the caravan littered gravelled forecourt (this is too grand a term for what it actually was) but it wasn't quite enough for Mr T to get a decent idea of the car. I waited in the passenger seat while he went to ask about trade plates so that he could test it out on the road. Suddenly the salesman had leapt into the car, and quite literally wheel spun us onto the muddy dirt track up to the main road. Oh yeah, he drove *at* a truck reversing around the corner towards us, as well.
He's bought the car, we're going back next week to collect it and this time we won't need that lunatic to drive us anywhere, which is a great relief
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