Imagine my surprise when an 86-year-old man phoned me to say he was interested in buying my late dad’s mobility scooter for his partially sighted son.
I immediately thought that he may have fewer accidents on it than my dad – who was often returning to his sheltered housing block with enough roadkill in the front basket to feed all the residents.
The following morning, I showed the man the scooter and he was impressed. Then he looked at the scooter, looked at me and looked at his car. Then, I looked at the scooter, then at him and then at his car.
We telepathically agreed that we could never lift the scooter into the car because it was simply bigger than the actual car.
He asked if I could possibly drive the scooter to his house and I truthfully told him that I was rubbish at driving dodgem cars and was serving a life ban from Diggerland.
The following day, he brought his son to test drive it up and down the quiet road.
“It’s a bit slow,” he said. So, I helpfully showed him the speed controls and he shot off on the silver scooter like Sting in Quadrophenia.
Afterwards, they bizarrely agreed that it was, alas, too small for the son but would be ideal for his shorter dad who was getting too old to safely drive his car.
The son literally, scooted off to his dad’s house whilst his dad stayed and ushered me indoors to secretly conduct the deal.
Like something from the 1950’s, I had to sign a handwritten piece of paper to say that I had received the money as he handed me a yellow envelope full of cash.
“There’s a little something for you too,” he said. I checked and there wasn’t -unless that “little something” was the envelope?
And having mutually agreed everything was in order, he shook my hand with a tight grip that he’s probably used on his steering wheel when he doesn’t trust his airbags to inflate.
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