Friday, August 05, 2005

Final Destination

Front tyres duly changed, their rolling leitmotif once again more 'get into the groove' than 'smooth operator' and all lights legally luminous. Very cleverly I tracked down and chose a repair outlet that isn't MOT registered which meant I had to then take the car and tout it to another repair outlet that is registered and grovelingly request a free inspection and ticket validation. Getting your ticket stamped for onward transmission as proof of work carried out is of course much easier if the ticket stamper has done the work and reaps the benefit of payment. Another lesson learnt there.

Next stop, the local police station and the production of all specified documents. This should have been straightforward. One of the great advantages of civilian workers at police front desks replacing the old desk sergeants, now inhabiters of the darker recesses of the building - eerie modern day Dr Frankenstein body part workshops of fingerprinters, mouth swabbers, breath testers and cells - is that they are efficient, business-like form checkers and fillers. Chances are you'll be in and out as if you've popped to the post office to do your car tax - without the disadvantage of having to queue behind half the local towns pensioner population who tend to see to it that pension day happens on the same day.

If, however, our civilian specialist - fully up to date with insurance policy documents and how the dating systems work and cognisant through weary practice and honed muscle memory what it is they need to look at and how to record the information presented, has popped to lunch, you may well find yourself back dealing with the police again. As I did...

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