8:52am Monday 21st July 2008
By Telegraph & Argus
You have been out-bid,” the computer screen informed him. “Please enter £504.37 or more to bid again.” It had been a tough auction, all the way up from a mere £5 starting bid.
The Scribbler poised with his finger above his computer mouse. For the past quarter of an hour he had been engaged in a battle of wills with another bidder over a rare Austin Gearcruncher Mark V which he had found on the internet auction site eBay. The Scribbler needed a new car after having a fond daydream about his old Gearcruncher Mark IV, and serendipity had led him to find the Mark V on the internet. There were only a handful of the later model made before Austin junked the marque, and The Scribbler had set himself a strict £500 limit. But, like a tiger-shark in a feeding frenzy, his blood was up and that funny bit of white had rolled over his eyes in readiness for the final strike.
There were only seconds to go before the auction ended. The Scribbler tapped in £505 and pressed enter. Immediately the message came back: He had been outbid. He put in £510. Again, outbid. The clock was counting down. The other person was more determined than him. No, not more determined, vowed The Scribbler. As the final seconds ticked away, he typed “£700”. Then he was out of time.
The internet page took an age to reload. The Scribbler closed his eyes. After a full minute, he opened one eye and squinted at the monitor. He had won! His face fell. He couldn’t exactly afford £700. Not if Thelma Gusset (pronounced “Gussay”), the fragrant T&A women’s editor, wanted a weekend away this month. Still, he reflected, now he had a new car they could go where they liked. They just wouldn’t have to spend any money when they got there.
The next day was Saturday, the day of the Classic Car Rally on Centenary Square, and The Scribbler took Thelma there for a day out, promising her a surprise.
“I don’t trust your surprises,” she said, but relented when he offered to buy her a hot dog. He had paid an extra £50 to the vendor to have the car personally delivered to him in Centenary Square; he had assembled all his friends from the Boilermaker’s Arms to witness his proud moment.
“What exactly are we waiting for, Scribs?” grumbled Doris ‘The Happy Medium’ Thrope. “There’s port and lemon to be drunk, you know.”
“It’ll do you good to get a bit of fresh air,” said The Scribbler. “Look at all these wonderful cars. Don’t they make you feel young again?”
Doris allowed a smile to crack her face. “Not half. See that old Aston Martin? I knew a chap had one of those. Roomy back seat, if you get my meaning.”
Everyone did, but no-one wanted to dwell on it too much. Thelma stared at her half-eated hot dog and began to look a bit queasy.
Just at the right time a delivery man in a brown uniform wandered up with a clipboard. “Delivery for The Scribbler?”
“Right here,” said The Scribbler, signing the docket with a flourish. He winked at Thelma. “Now, where is it?”
“Here,” said the driver, handing over a small box. The Scribbler stared at it dumbly. “There must be some mistake.”
The delivery man inspected his docket. “No, I don’t think so. It says here, One Austin Gearcruncher Mark V scale model by Dinky, must be hand-delivered to customer.”
The Scribbler managed to mutter something that sounded like “£700...” before he hit the floor in a dead faint.
As everyone rushed to The Scribbler’s aid, Graham the Gasman started to whistle what he hoped was an innocent tune and stuck the piece of paper in his pocket. Perhaps now was not such a good time to mention that he’d fleeced some mug on the internet for seven hundred quid for one of his old toy cars...
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