![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Cars = stress
Dec. 20th, 2007 04:51 pmIf there are two things that, when brought into conjunction, are almost guaranteed to cause me stress, it's the motor car and the council.
But first, dear reader, fade back a day to yesterday, when I decided, having somewhat recovered from 'flu debilitation, decided to check that the car was ok.
It wasn't. The battery was stone-cold flat as a pancake. Kind of a wrr, wrrr, wuh, sound.
This had happened to me before, a few years ago. It's a sad by-product of trying to keep a low carbon footprint. Unless you drive the car frequently, the cells in the battery degrade. One of them conks out, and, voila, starting the car is like Russian Roulette. Except that, this time, you want the damn thing to fire.
I went shopping, came back, tried it again and, presto, up it fired. I drove it around for a couple of miles and took the precaution of parking it at the top of the hill, facing downwards.
This morning, I walked up the hill to try the car again. Nothing. Flat as a pancake. Oh well, I thought, I'll leave it until after I've sorted out some administrative tasks, and come back and try again. It worked yesterday. Then, if it starts, I'll take it up to Kwik-Fit for a new battery. If it doesn't, I shall put an oily rag in the petrol tank and set fire to the fucker.
Today, it was a matter of paying in a few cheques, posting a few letters, and renewing my car parking resident's permit. This requires that you bring along the vehicle registration and a current council tax bill. And could I find my current council tax bill (a single sheet of white paper issued in March)? No, I couldn't. I had all the bills going back to 1999, but not the one for 2007. So I telephoned the parking shop and asked them what else I could bring as proof of residence.
Their answer? Nothing. I would have to go to Lewisham Town Hall (which is, by the by, in Catford), for a replacement.
But I get thousands of pieces of paper a year, I cried. My Council Tax bill is paid by direct debit.
"Are you on the electoral register?" asked my African conversationeee at the parking shop.
"Yes!" I cried, grasping at straws and at last seeing a solution.
"Name"? I gave my name.
"Address?" I gave my address.
"We have no record on our list."
"But I'm on the list!", I cried, feeling more and more as if I were in a Schindleresque timewarp.
"We have an adated version"
"A what?"
"It's adated."
"Can you say that to me very, very, slowly?"
"Yes, it is ed-a-ted, the ed-ated version".
"Ah, you mean the EDITED version".
"Yes".
"So, if I ticked the box that keeps me off the marketing lists and stops people getting details on me from the public records, then you can't see me".
"Yes".
"So, what else can I bring?"
"You have to go to the Town Hall".
Fucking unbelievable. In an electronic land, it's vital to have particular pieces of apparently irrelevant paper (hell, it's not as if who I am and where I live is a secret) in order to get another piece of paper which I then have to stick in the windscreen of my car to show that I have the right to park my car outside of my house. One would have thought that making this entire system electronic would not require the brains of more than two people, a dog, and a spare Thursday morning.
I telephoned Lewisham Council. After a mere three minutes (top class to the Council there, by the way) I got through to the right person, who said that she would send me a duplicate. From her tone of voice, it was clear that I was not alone in failing to realize that a council tax bill is up there with your passport and your vehicle insurance documents as "something which on pain of death must not be mislaid"
So, I went back to the car and tried the starter. Presto! Firing engine. I drove up to Kwik-Fit.
After hanging around for 20 minutes or so, a young kid said thhat he was ready to test the battery.
I couldn't remember how to open the bonnet ("pop the hood" is, I believe, the American vernacular)). He looked under the steering wheel.
"The lever's sheered off. You need a new lever".
"Do you do levers?" asked I.
"No".
Brilliant. I had a car that only started when it was in the right mood, with a bonnet that the guy at Kwik-Fit couldn't open, and a parking permit that would expire within three days. If things got much worse I'd have a car which I couldn't park and which I couldn't move. A dilemma which, I suspect, would have stumped even Schrödinger.
I got the car back to the top of the hill. I parked it. I looked under the steering wheel. I found the thing that was connected to the sheered off lever. I pulled it. The bonnet opened.
I drove back to Kwik-Fit.
Not wishing to upset the staff of the operation to whom I was going to be loaning my admittedly valueless car (indeed, the new battery would probably be the most valuable thing in it), I forebore to point out that I, a man who knows less of the internal combustion-engine-powered vehicle than did Julius Caesar, was able to perform the complex mechanical feat of opening a bonnet, something which appeared to be beyond at least one of their staff.
It took only 20 minutes of phone calls for a battery to be found, but that would take until tomorrow to arrive. The car is still at Kwik-Fit. I'm half-tempted not to go back for it. That would show them.
It was at this point that I realized that the mess in my flat was just too much to bear. The spare room is a disgrace. I haven't stripped the wall, and I haven't painted the wood that will become the shelves. Hell, I haven't even bought the brackets. (But, I HAVE had 'flu...). I'll do that tomorrow as I walk past Wates to pick up the car.
So, so far today I've spent £30 so that the car can stand still and £64 so that it can move. And I don't think that I've actually used it (for need) since July.
I started tidying up. Just some bits and bobs. I made some small progress. I took all the unfiled finance stuff and laid it out in separate piles (about 25, I think). And there, tucked away in the midst of all my receipts and tax stuff, was a folded up Council Tax Bill, circa March 2007. I could have kissed it.
I still think it's a fucking farce that you have to take this piece of paper AND NO OTHER to prove that you currently live where you say you live. But I trudged off to the shop in Lewisham to buy the permit.
And that was my fucking day. Four days of 'flu, one day of recoverry, and a day spent pissing around because of the internal combustion engine, a machine for whcih I have no love at the best of times.
+++++++
I also dropped $120 first-thing at Full Tilt. I was a couple of buy-ins down, so I was quite glad to get back to where I ended up. I quickly recovered the rest and a bit more this afternoon against some surprisingly weak players on the IP Network. Let's hope it's the Christmas spirit.
( some of today's hands )
But first, dear reader, fade back a day to yesterday, when I decided, having somewhat recovered from 'flu debilitation, decided to check that the car was ok.
It wasn't. The battery was stone-cold flat as a pancake. Kind of a wrr, wrrr, wuh, sound.
This had happened to me before, a few years ago. It's a sad by-product of trying to keep a low carbon footprint. Unless you drive the car frequently, the cells in the battery degrade. One of them conks out, and, voila, starting the car is like Russian Roulette. Except that, this time, you want the damn thing to fire.
I went shopping, came back, tried it again and, presto, up it fired. I drove it around for a couple of miles and took the precaution of parking it at the top of the hill, facing downwards.
This morning, I walked up the hill to try the car again. Nothing. Flat as a pancake. Oh well, I thought, I'll leave it until after I've sorted out some administrative tasks, and come back and try again. It worked yesterday. Then, if it starts, I'll take it up to Kwik-Fit for a new battery. If it doesn't, I shall put an oily rag in the petrol tank and set fire to the fucker.
Today, it was a matter of paying in a few cheques, posting a few letters, and renewing my car parking resident's permit. This requires that you bring along the vehicle registration and a current council tax bill. And could I find my current council tax bill (a single sheet of white paper issued in March)? No, I couldn't. I had all the bills going back to 1999, but not the one for 2007. So I telephoned the parking shop and asked them what else I could bring as proof of residence.
Their answer? Nothing. I would have to go to Lewisham Town Hall (which is, by the by, in Catford), for a replacement.
But I get thousands of pieces of paper a year, I cried. My Council Tax bill is paid by direct debit.
"Are you on the electoral register?" asked my African conversationeee at the parking shop.
"Yes!" I cried, grasping at straws and at last seeing a solution.
"Name"? I gave my name.
"Address?" I gave my address.
"We have no record on our list."
"But I'm on the list!", I cried, feeling more and more as if I were in a Schindleresque timewarp.
"We have an adated version"
"A what?"
"It's adated."
"Can you say that to me very, very, slowly?"
"Yes, it is ed-a-ted, the ed-ated version".
"Ah, you mean the EDITED version".
"Yes".
"So, if I ticked the box that keeps me off the marketing lists and stops people getting details on me from the public records, then you can't see me".
"Yes".
"So, what else can I bring?"
"You have to go to the Town Hall".
Fucking unbelievable. In an electronic land, it's vital to have particular pieces of apparently irrelevant paper (hell, it's not as if who I am and where I live is a secret) in order to get another piece of paper which I then have to stick in the windscreen of my car to show that I have the right to park my car outside of my house. One would have thought that making this entire system electronic would not require the brains of more than two people, a dog, and a spare Thursday morning.
I telephoned Lewisham Council. After a mere three minutes (top class to the Council there, by the way) I got through to the right person, who said that she would send me a duplicate. From her tone of voice, it was clear that I was not alone in failing to realize that a council tax bill is up there with your passport and your vehicle insurance documents as "something which on pain of death must not be mislaid"
So, I went back to the car and tried the starter. Presto! Firing engine. I drove up to Kwik-Fit.
After hanging around for 20 minutes or so, a young kid said thhat he was ready to test the battery.
I couldn't remember how to open the bonnet ("pop the hood" is, I believe, the American vernacular)). He looked under the steering wheel.
"The lever's sheered off. You need a new lever".
"Do you do levers?" asked I.
"No".
Brilliant. I had a car that only started when it was in the right mood, with a bonnet that the guy at Kwik-Fit couldn't open, and a parking permit that would expire within three days. If things got much worse I'd have a car which I couldn't park and which I couldn't move. A dilemma which, I suspect, would have stumped even Schrödinger.
I got the car back to the top of the hill. I parked it. I looked under the steering wheel. I found the thing that was connected to the sheered off lever. I pulled it. The bonnet opened.
I drove back to Kwik-Fit.
Not wishing to upset the staff of the operation to whom I was going to be loaning my admittedly valueless car (indeed, the new battery would probably be the most valuable thing in it), I forebore to point out that I, a man who knows less of the internal combustion-engine-powered vehicle than did Julius Caesar, was able to perform the complex mechanical feat of opening a bonnet, something which appeared to be beyond at least one of their staff.
It took only 20 minutes of phone calls for a battery to be found, but that would take until tomorrow to arrive. The car is still at Kwik-Fit. I'm half-tempted not to go back for it. That would show them.
It was at this point that I realized that the mess in my flat was just too much to bear. The spare room is a disgrace. I haven't stripped the wall, and I haven't painted the wood that will become the shelves. Hell, I haven't even bought the brackets. (But, I HAVE had 'flu...). I'll do that tomorrow as I walk past Wates to pick up the car.
So, so far today I've spent £30 so that the car can stand still and £64 so that it can move. And I don't think that I've actually used it (for need) since July.
I started tidying up. Just some bits and bobs. I made some small progress. I took all the unfiled finance stuff and laid it out in separate piles (about 25, I think). And there, tucked away in the midst of all my receipts and tax stuff, was a folded up Council Tax Bill, circa March 2007. I could have kissed it.
I still think it's a fucking farce that you have to take this piece of paper AND NO OTHER to prove that you currently live where you say you live. But I trudged off to the shop in Lewisham to buy the permit.
And that was my fucking day. Four days of 'flu, one day of recoverry, and a day spent pissing around because of the internal combustion engine, a machine for whcih I have no love at the best of times.
+++++++
I also dropped $120 first-thing at Full Tilt. I was a couple of buy-ins down, so I was quite glad to get back to where I ended up. I quickly recovered the rest and a bit more this afternoon against some surprisingly weak players on the IP Network. Let's hope it's the Christmas spirit.
( some of today's hands )
