The 13th labour of Hercules

Classical scholars amongst you will be familiar with most of the tale. Driven to insanity by Hera, Hercules committed infanticide and, distraught at his act, prayed to Apollo for forgiveness. As penitence, Apollo’s oracle dictated that he was to undertake 12 seemingly impossible tasks. Happily, with the aid of Athena (goddess of posters) and Hermes (bespoke tailor to mythical deities) he succeeded, Augean stables et al.  Initially tragic and latterly inspiring tale it may be, but is a mere promenade dans le parc compared to finding a reasonably priced second hand car in France.

Having decided you need some wheels, but that a new car is way too chere, you scour every private sales website you can bear. And find absolutely zip. Out of desperation you turn to dealer’s portals – only a few of which list their ‘occassions’ (viz. ‘opportunities’ – as in the opportunity to pour unfeasibly large sums into some pimped up wreck). Having travelled in ever decreasing circles for a week or two and in the deluded belief that there must be something worthwhile out there, you decide to grasp the nettle & take a day to go to the garages themselves. Careful to avoid a Monday (all closed) or a bank holiday or Saturday afternoon or a Sunday (all ditto) and more in hope than expectation, off you potter.

Foolishly, you’ve chosen the Tuesday before a bank holiday Wednesday and half the dealers you visit have taken the pont (or the p**s, depending on your point of view). Even so, there’s still plenty of metal to tramp around. Despite having upped your budget three times, a dozen garages and a couple of hundred cars later you’ve still drawn a blank. Trying as hard as you can to blot out all thoughts of UK car supermarkets (ooh – lovely, lovely shiny cars, row upon row with tiny weeny prices and smiley, helpful staff who don’t bugger off for a four hour lunch) and predictably deflated, you head off home.

And, yea, a miracle – you discover a friend in the next village is selling exactly what you want for a reasonable price. Really. With a speed that would leave Usain Bolt chewing dust, you get round their sharpish, give the immaculately maintained voiture the most cursory of glances and buy it. No haggling, no nonsense, just blessed relief. Offering up your thanks to whichever God dictates such things – and at the risk of pushing your luck – you ask that said motor may last a lifetime. If only to avoid going through the whole thing ever again.