Background information: On holiday in Wales last year I tried to drive down a too-narrow lane and scraped the side of my car on a wall. Then, last winter, one of the Scowcroft Mafia (neighbourhood ASBO youths) punched the front bonnet because I had politely pointed out to him that the whole street was covered with snow so he didn't need to be scraping it off my car. More recently, on holiday in Cornwall, maddened by PMT, torrential rain and Martha demanding a top of the range MP3 player, I reversed the car at some speed into a stone gatepost, causing a bashed-in back bumper. It now looks more suitable for the Dodgems than the work car of a professional woman in her mid-to-late thirties and so I decided to have it fixed.
Not knowing of any suitable garages I decided to take the advice of Penfold who told me there was a very highly regarded garage near Manchester. I took the car there for a quote and it was like the Bronx. Boarded-up council houses, metal shutters, half demolished buildings .... I felt as if I had wandered into a Ken Loach film. But, trusting the recommendation of Penfold's friend Rachel, I booked the car in for "bodywork repairs" this week. When I dropped it off it was with a feeling of trepidation. I hoped they would not leave it on the street, for in all likelihood it would be burnt out in Harpurhey by teatime. I was also suspicious because the man had told me it would take 3 days to do the repairs, yet when I dropped it off at 9 am Monday he said he would phone me "Thursday or Friday". I am not a mathematical genius but that sounded to me more like 4 or 5 days, not 3. I suspected that they were going to fix it up and then use it as a passion wagon for a few nights. It has a spacious boot. (Not that I myself have ever experienced even ONE MOMENT of passion in that car, by the way.)
Then at 2 pm today, when I was having a little sleep because it's the holidays and I had a late night last night, a callow youth from "Phoenix MOT" rang me up and said the man who was going to do the paintwork had "took sick this morning" and therefore my car could not be fixed until after the Bank Holiday. As I need my car for work every day until the end of October I had to hotfoot it to the Bronx (illegally taking my Dad away from his very important job at the council so essential services had to be put "on hold") and retrieve my car. Which had no petrol in it. Which is very suspicious, because when I left it there was a quarter of a tank left. If you want to know what I think, I think my car has been DOGGING. We had to drive all the way back to Shaw with the petrol light on, praying to get there on what little the doggers/joyriders had left in the tank.
Furthermore, they had not done even one little tiny bit of work on it in the 3 DAYS they have had it in their possession, and so I have been walking around in the rain for 3 days for no result. Phoenix MOT? Can think of more suitable names. "Dead Sparrow MOT" possibly.
Have now taken the car to a proper garage in Milnrow where they are going to charge me less and lend me a courtesy car for free.
It is a good thing I am unfeasibly happy and feel 17 again today, or the whole matter could have put me in a bad mood.
Plan to marry mechanic, or bodywork specialist (I do mean cars.)
0 comments:
Post a Comment