This time of year is much the same as ever. Lots to do, not much time to do it in and shifting priorities with the added excitement of the change in weather bring out all kinds of respiratory ailments. I’m feeling almost human again now. Certainly well enough to put the road bike to good use for the 20 minute return home journey from Stockport Audi.
The car has needed to be booked in for it’s 80k service for a while and with one thing or another it’s taken time to fit it in. With hindsight the fact that they managed to fit me in for this morning when I phoned yesterday, probably wasn’t a good sign, but I lived in hope that at least one of the three local Audi dealers must be okay (Macclesfield had already been a big disappointment).
So I dropped the car off rode home and then returned for the advised 12.30 pick up. Was it ready? Non. Ended up having to wait for 30 minutes until the service manager could see me. Then found out they hadn’t changed the four wheel drive oil or filter. Why? Because time is tight on a Saturday. WTF! Why have you booked me in knowing the type of car I have and the work involved in giving it a 80k service on a day you don’t have time to do it? Then discover it’s still not ready. Why? Because they’re still cleaning it. FFS! Another 30 minutes of my life elapses before it’s ready.
As I drive home fuming at another poor experience at the hands of Brits playing at being Germans. Don’t bother you’re clearly rubbish and don’t understand customer care. Why did everyone else get offered teas and coffees whilst they waited? Why was the only thing they had to read one copy of the Telegraph? There wasn’t even any promotional material. Even the Audenshaw Bodyshop has a copy of the brochures for each model.
Absolute rubbish! I’m sure the head of technical at Audi AG wouldn’t be impressed at the lackadaisical attitude towards the maintenance of the legendary Quattro drive system either. I decide some music is needed to distract my testosterone fuelled annoyance, only to discover not one of the radio stations available is actually playing any music.
I don’t want to listen to some mong talking about how massively exciting his life is. i do not want to listen to their opinions on football, ice cream or fashion. I definitely do not want to know that someone last night left a half eaten kebab on a doorstep to greet someone this morning. Gordon Ramsay’s Bleep-O-Fucking-Meter had nothing on the language that followed that discovery. Cocks!