It is a rainy Monday morning and my wife and I are in a car dealership about a mile from home, walking around a shiny new vehicle and peering into its windows.

“It looks bigger than our car,” she says.

“That’s probably because it’s indoors,” I say. “Imagine how much bigger our car would look if we parked it in the kitchen.”

I keep glancing at the time on my phone – we’ve already been here for over an hour, and all because six months ago I casually suggested we should probably consider getting an electric car at some point. I still find it difficult to comprehend the extent to which this is my fault.

The last time we bought a car – in Exeter, where our previous car had chosen to die – the man at the dealership refused to believe we were serious buyers. He suspected we were holidaymakers killing time on a rainy Saturday by test driving Skodas.

“I am deadly serious, Alan,” my wife told him.

Years later, I still can’t believe anyone would do this sort of thing for fun. Standing by while the trade-in value of your present vehicle is assessed is not my idea of a good time. And test driving is like taking a driving test – piloting an unfamiliar vehicle through wet streets while someone tells you where to go next.

“You might want to use your windscreen wipers,” my wife said.

“I don’t know where they are on this,” I said.

“You’ll want to go left here,” said Max, the salesperson, from the back. I thought: I know which way, Max. This isn’t my first time in Brentford.

We head back to the dealership.

“So, are you still working?” said Max.

“Yes,” I said. “I am.”

“Great!” said Max. “What sort of thing do you do?” I told him.

“Cool,” he said. “I’ll just go and give the keys back, and I’ll be right with you guys.”

We are still circling the showroom car when Max returns.

“Is this car longer than our car?” my wife says.

“That car is 12cm shorter than your car,” Max says. “But it’s 5cm wider.”

“Huh,” I say.

Max sits us down to talk about trade-in value. It’s not good news.

“My manager is being a little bit mean,” Max says. “I think I can get him to do better, but I just wanted to go through some things first.”

Max reads out a long list of optional extras. My wife declines all of them. Then he leaves us again.

“Do you really think he’s talking to his manager?” my wife says.

“There is no manager,” I say. “He just sets an egg timer for 15 minutes, and has a latte.”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“So,” my wife says. “Are you still working?”

“I should be working now,” I say.

“Do try to cheer up,” she says.

“I can’t,” I say. “I feel like I’m being held hostage.”

Max returns with news from his pretend manager – better news, though not as good as he, Max, had hoped. There is, finally, the matter of the deposit to secure an interest in a secondhand car we’ve so far only seen on the website. I feel I ought to question this arrangement, but by this point the deposit seems a reasonable enough ransom. I’d happily pay double just to be allowed to leave.

Except: my bank declines the transaction. Max, by this point, has disappeared again.

“It says I need to ring the bank,” I say.

“So ring them,” my wife says.

“Are you kidding?” I say. “We’ll be here for hours,” I say.

“What do you want me to do?” she says.

“Right now, I just want you to pay this deposit for me,” I say.

“Fine,” she says. “Text me the link.”

Back at home, I ring the bank as instructed. The helpline transfers me to the fraud department, and the fraud department hangs up on me. When I get them back, a man asks me a load of questions before apologising and unblocking my card. I ask him why the transaction was first flagged as potential fraud.

“It was just because it’s from a different internet address than the one it’s usually from,” he says.

“You mean it was considered suspicious that I’d left the house to pay for something?” I say.

“Is there anything else I can help you with today?” he says.

It seems that no one, not even my bank, is prepared to view me as a serious buyer.