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!.
