Show me the inside of your car and I’ll tell your character

Never judge a person’s character by the make of the car without looking inside.

From the outside, the make, model, colour, extras and cleanliness only tell you how much money he has got and whether the water supply on his housing estate works.

But the inside of a car? Aha! Herein lie the secrets of his soul, his job, his social life, his family status, his attitudes, and very inner nature.

On the outside, dirt tells you more about the weather and the road. But dirt on the inside … to the observant eye, it is almost as good as an autobiography or a psychoanalyst’s report!

And that even applies to people whose inner-car is immaculate; to all appearances “unlived in”. Not a speck of dirt, not a single personal item. Even the tool kit is wrapped like the table napkin in a five-star hotel. That says the owner is either hiding something so dastardly that it has to be expunged, or is for some other reason an obsessive. It just isn’t natural, and it can’t possibly be honest.

People whose cars are always like that must be single (or un-married), over 40 and childless.

The inside of the car of the young bachelor looks like the outlet pipe of a garbage disposal unit. On the floor, passenger-side front, three scrumpled parking tickets, a length of wire, sundry tools and a sock.

In the ashtray, chewing gum, new and used. On the floor at the back, two empty Coke bottles, a gas cylinder that he hasn’t got round to refilling, a sweat shirt, a pair of running shoes, a copy of Elle with two pages torn out, three used spark plugs, a sports bag, and a window winding handle.

And what’s this? Two slender and distinct prints of bare feet — on the ceiling cloth, either side of the rear view mirror? This is a man in danger of hepatitis and an itchy scalp, but in little danger of finishing up 40 and fetishist and familyless.

In even more time, the inside will be cleared and vacuumed, the boot will accommodate a folding push chair and packets of Peau Douce, and the back seat area will be plush with pillows, teddy bears and cute little blankets, in the midst of which will sit a shiny bright “third party”.

In yet more time, the now executive car owner commutes to the office in a suit and collects VIP clients from the airport, so he is in constant battle to rid the car of sweet wrappers and tennis balls rolling under the pedals. Under the back seat there is certain to be an astounding agglomeration of geometry equipment and “missing property”, and enough biscuit and crisp crumbs to … well, if ever you were stranded in the bush, you wouldn’t starve for the first two weeks.

They say this phase only lasts about 10 years, and the extremes finally give way to tidy moderation, and a golf bag. Dream on.

Author: GAVIN BENNETT