Talk to me. Renault 5 Techno. Just over 5,000 miles. Beautiful little French thing, sitting there all quiet, like my third wife, Nicole, before the lawyers got involved. Sit down, have a coffee, we'll have a little chat about your future. Now look at it. Look at it. No marks. No scratches. No dents. No door dings. None of your "oh it'll buff out" nonsense. No trolley kiss from a Tesco car park. The paint? Lovely. The body? Straight as my accountant on a bad day. Ceramic coated. From new. Not last Tuesday by a bloke with a sponge and a dream. Topped up two months ago, because Terry looks after his motors. No swirls. No haze. Fresh as your nan's front room on a Sunday, the room you weren't allowed in. It's the Techno, so none of them yellow seats off the Iconic. Terry doesn't approve of yellow seats. Yellow seats go in an Austin Allegro with a vinyl roof and a man called Derek eating a Scotch egg. Cool Denim, Terry's go to on a Ritz's night out. Now listen to me. You don't just buy a car like this. No, no, no. You take it to lunch. You wine it. You dine it. You give it a little oil massage. And then, ooh la la, if you've behaved yourself, it lets you drive it home. Reminds me of my fourth wife. We don't talk about Cassandra. Now picture yourself with it. Aviators on. Motorola DynaTAC 8000X the size of a house brick pressed to your ear, on the phone to Terry, naturally. Glamorous woman draped over the other wing, doesn't know your name, doesn't want to. Waiter brings you a little espresso you never ordered. That, my friend, is what this car is about. Renault 5 Techno. Just over 5,000 miles. Ceramic coated from new. Recently topped up. No marks, no scratches, no dents, no door dings, no swirls, no yellow seats. Beautiful car. Lovely thing. Much love. Talk to me.