And I thought my eight years of studying for an Arts degree was difficult. Until I began the quest to buy a second-hand car – privately. That, my friends, brings with it a whole new level of complexity and intellectual stamina.

In the past weeks, I’ve learned a completely different language – words, phrases, not even distantly connected to the English dictionary. And they’re bandied about “on-line” like they could be laid down on a Scrabble board without so much as the raising of an eye brow.

AUCN, WOVI, PPSR, REVS, VIN, WOVR… this is the language of the modern day “preloved” motor vehicle market. Hang on… WOVR.. is that different from WOVI? OMG. WTF?

What ever happened to the plain “old school” motor vehicle descriptors, true insights like “runs on the smell of an oily rag” and “goes like the clappers”? Even the quintessential used car salesman (sorry sales-person) pitch – “Low mileage – only driven by a little old lady to church on Sunday”.

Up until recently, I’d been cautious to avoid Facebook “Marketplace” – It just seemed like you’d be swimming in a school of sharks. But then what of the alternatives? Fronting up to a car yard and getting collared by a lumpy gentleman wearing a combustible suit, topped off with a Looney Tunes tie? Thank you. No.

I ventured out to the Moorooka Magic Mile once in support of a mate looking to upgrade his bright blue Cortina station wagon. What an unedifying experience that was.

I can still picture old mate gliding, wide-eyed, across the yard and extending his clammy hand.

“This one fellas, this is a little beauty, an absolute bargain… exceptionally low mileage – the previous owner was a little old lady from Bundaberg who only drove to church on Sunday”. Of course.

I’d been wary of the used car salesmen breed since my very first vehicle transaction, dating back to high school.

Driving home, I was basking in the new found feeling of freedom, until of course my new pride and joy spluttered to a halt in the middle of the Normanby five-ways at 5.05 on a Friday afternoon.

Alighting from my two door coupe amid a cacophony of horns and piercing expletives, I managed to push the British made relic singlehandedly to relative safety – the nearest kerbside, some 50m away. Granted, “Angus” as the car became known, was not overly expensive – several decades later I spent more buying our first pram, but you’d still expect a warranty to cover more than the first 8kms.

So Facebook Marketplace it was, dovetailed in, of course, with Carsales.com.au, where you can access bombs and lemons not just locally, but from right across our broad, barren land. Seriously, we’re spoilt for choice.

Commencing my search for a reliable four cylinder runabout, the first thing that struck me was the names of the “vendors” – there was a certain consistency that was inconsistent with the community at large. But perhaps I was being overly suspicious, on account of the counsel from Chris, my car bloke. “You wouldn’t believe the skulduggery that goes on – be very careful,” he warned.

I reached out to “Jaycyn” – I didn’t mind the look of what he had up for sale – pretty low “K’s”, and the Mazda seemed reasonably priced.

“Hi Jaycyn – keen to have a look at the car, assuming it’s still available?”.

Yes.

“Great. Perhaps you could tell me where it is?”

“Browns Plains.”

“Thanks Jayc – any other clues? Just to save me driving around the suburb for four days, looking in driveways?”

Jayc eventually came good with the street name – no number, but I figured I could sort that out on approach. Clearly a motivated vendor.

As it turned out, the “item description” was not as accurate as it might have been, so Jayc and I went our seperate ways. His “3.2 star” rating on Marketplace should have sounded a warning, but Chris told me there were ways of doctoring those, too.

Leonardo was a nice fellow – as honest as the day is long, too honest as it turned out. Without knowing it, he’d been sold a pup – a repairable write-off, my first exposure to an “WOVR”. Leonardo knew nothing about WOVRs and PPSRs – he was just looking to offload his “assets” before returning home to Brazil. I felt sorry for him. At least he gave me the street number.

Over the ensuing fortnight, there were plenty of other interesting interactions, communicating and negotiating with “ESL” vendors, some of whom I hasten to add, didn’t seem to have a “First Language”. More Jaycyn-types, well meaning enough, just a little short suited in commercial acumen and common sense.

One bloke greeted me eating a lamb chop. Was it rude of me not to shake his hand?

I’d like to report a happy ending, that we have our “new” never-before-written off, not stolen, no-money-owning 4 cylinder second hand car, sitting proudly in the driveway, the ready play thing of a teenage son, craving incremental mobility.

But to date, the heady combination of our persistence and caution remains unrewarded.

I fear it might be time to go back the “MMM”, and see what sort of stock the bloke wearing the Looney Tunes tie has in his yard.