I’m not good with confrontation.
Very, very, very not good.
The mere thought of confrontation makes me nauseous.
So I approached the desk at my local Renault service centre with trepidation yesterday. I told the bloke that my car’s gearbox had gone on the fritz on the Harbour Bridge expressway the night before, so I thought it might require a little look-see.
He nodded sympathetically and informed me that unfortunately he was booked out for the next two weeks. Soz.
Well … I’ll be going, sorry to bother you …
And I drove my farked lemon of a car to work via my favourite cafe for a super-strong flat white.
I stewed on it all morning, then wrote an irate formal complaint to both the dealership and service centre at lunchtime. It included a long list of everything that has gone wrong with the car since I bought it, plus a heavy emphasis on my fear for my personal safety and that of my children to be driving around the mean streets of Sydney with a faulty gearbox for two weeks.
I’m much better at confrontation via email, though I still feel sick when I press the send button.
A perky lass called Cassidy from the service centre rang around an hour later to ask how my day was going.
I was a little thrown by the question, so hesitated for a moment before admitting it “could be better”.
She then asked me to bring the car in straight away. I couldn’t because, you know, work and all. I also said there was a slight problem with me needing my car to collect and deposit children at various places.
She put me on hold while she checked if she could provide a courtesy car. She couldn’t.
I sent a distress text to everyone I knew with a spare car and scored my friend Fee’s old station wagon.
Fee lives in the epicentre of trick or treating for our suburb, so it was a little harrowing to get the car, but I managed and I’ll be dropping my lemon off to the service centre first thing this morning before I trudge 30 minutes back home on foot at sparrow’s fart.
Anyways … the mainpicture on this blog post is my finest moment in Halloween make-up application for the youngest a few years back – excellently horrifying, no?
This year the youngest was too cool for trick or treating – though she was rocking a bit of a mummy vibe with her bandaged hand – and simply went to skipping training as normal before heading to a friend’s house to watch a horror movie.
The eldest purported to be trick or treating in Newtown, but may just have been lurking around in scary make-up.
So I grilled myself some salmon and tried to get up to date with my to-do list, which includes churning out a few stories for the skipping club website I edit, writing an update on the Kathleen Folbigg inquiry and trying to fathom how to map a domain name from Go Daddy to WordPress for the site I’m launching with DD.
I’ll relax when I’m 58 … the tentative age I’ve set for going part-time.
I’m dreaming … I have no idea how I’ll have enough dosh to do that in seven years time.
Anyways, have an awesome weekend. Mine will be filled with laughter as I’m off to two comedy shows and also making lots of love eyes at DD when he returns from a conference in Melbourne.
Have a good ‘un!
Song of the day: Rocky Horror Time Warp