garage salesmen

Everytime I visit a garage I am never disappointed by the horrror that is the salesman, the slimey, skinny, grey creature that lurks unappealingly at the customer services desk in wait to slither his obnoxious path through my enquiry. For fear of libel I will not mention his name or his snotty little den of employment, though in retrospect why worry as I slandered the toerags name liberally through the days that followed to any moderately attentive ear. I took my Vauxhall in to a specific dealership [first clue] in a small citadel north of a famous historic University town [clue two], and asked for a confirmation that the fan motor was dead, I knew it was and so did they, I explained I had to be told the cost before they did any work, and they phoned through with a quote, £167.75, crickey!, but it has to be done and I booked it for two days later. That evening I called in to pick up the sick car, and the salesman said 'so it will be £219', errrh? I asked why, he explained that they charge for the investigation, what investigation I told you what was wrong. He re-explained as if I had not quite understood, I batted back a reply 'that I did understand what he had claimed but...', and further said I was told the price, he tensed up. A swift rally of stubborn word tennis and he said 'you are being very silly'. Silly, a word that lit up the moment and I went for match point, 'silly is not an appropriate address for a customer, it suggests sexism does it not?'. He winced. I explained in my finest deepest vocal tones that I would be in on Friday, I would be paying £167.75 and no more and that he would now print out confirmation. He winced.
Point, set, match. Hoorah!.

turnstyle hell

They [who are they?] have put in turnstyles at our railway station. Apparently to curb crime but in action to curb the flow of traffic. The trains unload and a seriously ugly scene develops in seconds, the teenagers drift in clumps of hormonal discharge and the elderly bounce uncontrollably from the shoulders and bags of the commuters. The surge is a heath and safety nightmare, the backlog soon sits like a unsavory drainage crisis and voices hiss leaking expletives in the ears of the innocent. The number of guards and attendants have had to triple to filter through the sleepy and snappy travellers and the transport police hover as extras in a crowd scene from a Lynda Le Plante drama. This obstacle course is an exersize in statistical analysis, we are numbers on a chart of law and order, figures in a game the men in suits think suitable and acceptable, we should revolt and scale the barriers in a citizens olympiad of protest. Though I guess its unlikely and they know it. Angry dears such as I will occasionally snipe and grizzle but the masses are under control, like mice on the mouse organ we are workers and in general only parts in the machine and not the keys to release disorder.