Some time ago I owned a BMW and that blasted car is a story in its own right.
Now there are sometimes weird little unexpected moments in an otherwise banal week that make life worth living. One weekend the computer in the car’s dashboard indicated that one of the bulbs in the back of my car had blown. For all the computer’s so called feckin’ intelligence, it couldn’t tell me which of the twelve or so bulbs it was, but a “friendly” Garda informed me that it was the back right brake light.
Propelled by this knowledge, I skipped pronto to the local BMW dealer, and this is where the fun began. If you have ever seen an episode of “grumpy old men” on television, you’ll know what mood I was in, what with the young Garda’s sermon still ringing in my ears. It’s one thing to stand head lowered and mouth zipped as a young pup of a Garda reads you the riot act over a blown brake bulb, but you’ve no choice, have you? But, when you head off to do his bidding, only to be confronted with another little pup, called a “manager," well it tests the sternest metal.
It started harmlessly enough with a friendly greeting from me which was cut short by the alleged manager informing me curtly that he would be with me shortly. If he’d busied himself picking his nose in front of me, it would not have been at all surprising because he was keeping me waiting to demonstrate his self-importance. However, when he did deign to entertain my enquiry, he instructed me to wait yet again and then he returned, trailing a young mechanic, and without a word from either, they strode purposefully out the door to the forecourt. I scurried along behind as it seemed to be the thing to do. I had the keys of the car after all.
“Which car is it” the ill-mannered manager demanded brusquely. “The dirty one” I responded, finally finding my spirit again. As it turned out, those directions were accurate enough for him to head straight to my car. “Keys” he said flapping a casual hand over one shoulder as he walked. Jesus, this guy was getting up the highest rafter of my nose. I handed over the bunch and the offending manager handed them to the silent mechanic and instructed him to get in, start it up and press the brake pedal. I stood beside the car frowning as the manager turned to me and said, “Brake light you say” as if I was lying or something. I shrugged and nodded. He concentrated a little more and then came out with the unforgettable line, “Front or back?”
Time stood still and a warm happy feeling wafted over me and I just couldn't resist it. “Front” I announced confidently, to which he walked around the front of my car, looked down at the lighting array and gave the mechanic the thumbs up.
A truly glorious moment!