The moment I saw that pretty little red courgette preening itself on the garage forecourt I was smitten. I went straight into the Portakabin and collared the salesman.

"Any chance of going for a ride out?" I begged.

"I'd quite like to go for a spin achtually, " he confided. "But I haven't got my contact lentils in, so you'll have to drive."

We got in the car.

"There's a seat belt pep person," he pointed out helpfully, "and you have to pull out that fancy-looking knob to start the engine."

"That certainly is an arti choke," I said, yanking it out.

The engine started with a faint ratatouille.

"What was that noise?"

That's the water pump, kin you hear it? It's got a slight leek."

I gunned the motor, listening to its throaty beet.

"Eight cylinders," he remarked.

"That's hallot!" I said, impressed.

"Lettuce go this way," he suggested.

We turned right and drove up the street.

"How's business?" I asked, trying to make conversation.

"Bean terrible recently. We have to duck en dive just to make a living."

"So how did you come by this beauty?"

"It was traded in against an Austin Healey Sprout by a Scandinavian guy. I think he was a Swede. Turn ip this side street, it'll take us back."

"Goes well," I admitted, acceleryating hard.

"Like a rocket!" he agreed. "Here's the garage."

I parked the car and climbed out.

"Well, what d'you think?" he asked hopefully.

"Nice, but it's not for me," I told him. It's got plenty of sex appeal, but there's not mush room for cabbage in the trunk. Anyway, I've heard this make of car rots."

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