I went into the Dealership at Blackpool for a wheel bearing or something some years ago while we were visiting family nearby. The very decorative young lady at Reception assumed I was some Scottish Scum off a busload from Glasgow and advised me in the most condescending manner in the thickest Lancashire accent I'd ever heard that I wasn't allowed to sit in the cars while I was waiting for them to find the shelf with the wheel bearing on it. I had to ask three times, while retaining my position behind the wheel of a convertible, what she was saying. They couldn't find what I was looking for and asked me to come back the next day when another one was due to be delivered. I met said young lady again that evening, sprawled over the boot of my car with a fag in one hand, a shoe in the other, feet on the rear seats (I'd left the roof down) and absolutely ****ed, having a row with her friends. Despite being told nicely that she wasn't allowed to sit on the car, she decided not to move so my son and I lifted her bodily into a hedge to various cheers and encouragement. Next day, there she was looking like she had had a rough night. She didn't say a word when I went and sat in the shiny convertible.