"What" I said, gesturing to the alien object, "Is THAT?"
"Its a sticker, sir" replied the salesman
"I can see that," I replied acidly, "Why is it stuck to my car?"
"Because you bought the car from us, sir?"
"I don't want that on my car"
"But its part of the valeting service, sir..."
I leaned forward, braving the breath of a man who had clearly not seen a toothbrush, let alone opened a bottle of listerine, for many years. I suspect he regarded floss as something a favourite sheep might be called or perhaps a reference to a George Eliot book.
"I did not ask for one of your stickers. I do not want one of your stickers. I want my windows to be clear of clutter and empty of extraneous articles. If I wanted to cover my car with pointless stickers, I would wear a burberry cap, cover myself with cheap gold-coloured jewellery that turns green in the rain and get some badly spelt tattoos - or better still, tattoos of symbols that purport to mean spiritual things, but actually spell 'arsehole' in a variety of eastern alphabets. I would fit a polished baked-bean can on the exhaust and punch some holes in the silencer for effect. I might even put some black plastic sheets on the windows to simulate tinting.
"However, since I've demonstrably not done any of these things you can be fairly sure I don't want your sticker on my car. So unless you're going to pay me for the advertising placement - shall we say £1000 a year? - take the sticker off. Now."
It hardly makes any difference. If my car survives the week parked outside my house I'll be surprised.
