FEW things bore me more than men talking about cars.

I have always been a little ashamed the masculine part of my brain that should be driving me on a quest to understand all things mechanical is so woefully under developed.

However, now I am getting perilously close to passing my driving test I find myself aspiring for at least a basic knowledge.

People’s opinion of how much a first car should set me back ranged from several thousand pounds down to a handful of acorns so I resolved to test out the market myself.

So close to achieving my schoolboy dream of car ownership I got over excited and considered looking at the prospect of buying a new car.

With this heady ambition in my mind I went to several showrooms and admired the fresh-faced cars on offer and the various impressive gadgets that lived in them.

As I looked at them one thought was going through my mind – would this car impress women, particularly a devastatingly attractive blonde student I had recently met.

The problem is I don’t really know what to look for in a car, these were certainly shiny, perhaps that would be enough.

My browsing came to an abrupt end when we started talking numbers and they asked to see a payslip and my bank details.

After being escorted from the premises I was left with a bitter and insolvent taste in my mouth.

With regret I realised I would not be picking my date up in a car akin to the Batmobile as I had initially hoped.

There was a knot in my stomach as I prepared to dip my toe into the hazardous world of the second hand car mogul.

Having never been a particularly good “lad” in this respect I was concerned the gaps in my knowledge could be easily exposed and costly.

I had in the past been used as a prop by lady friends who felt my presence may stop mechanics overcharging them for repairs.

My role was mainly to nod and look shrewd as workers spoke about obscure engine parts.

Occasionally I would throw in words like “fan belt” and “wheel” to back up my story.

I hoped this trickery would see me through my first big purchase.

Entering the forecourt I tried to look wise and noncommittal wandering between cars and every so often tutting.

I was startled when a salesman crept up behind me and asked what I was looking for.

Fearful he would see through my disguise I said: “A red one.”

His expression was that of a man struggling to hide his disgust.

“…Or a green one, I haven’t decided yet,” I added in what I hoped was a breezy tone.

In an effort to claw back some credibility I kicked one of the tyres of a nearby Fiat in the way I had seen car-owner types do.

It hurt a lot more than I planned and I winced as the pain shot through my body.

I continued my performance circling the car with my head tilted and my eyes slightly narrowed occasional pushing down on the ends.

Worried my expertise may be falling into doubt I pressed my ear against the bonnet.

I felt the ice cold metal on my check and thought: yes, it definitely would have been better to have turned the engine on first.

From my low trajectory I had a worm’s eye of the salesman’s expression which had now changed to mild fear.

I made my excuses and left with one last longing look at the R-reg Espace on the forecourt.