The week from hell continues ...

My NCT appointment was for 4.00 pm. I wasn't absolutely sure of the location of the test centre (the - very diagrammatic - map on the web was very confusing), so phoned for directions.

Them: 'I can't help you, I'm afraid. This is the central office. I'm not based in the actual test centre, and their phone number is ex-directory.'

Me: 'Is there anyone there with you who might know where the place is?'

Them: 'Hold on. I'll check'. [dum-de-dum-de-dum] 'Sorry, there isn't anyone. But I'll tell you what: I'll contact the test centre and ask them to give you a call.'

[2 minutes later] Telephone: Bring-bring. Bring-bring. Bring...

Someone else: 'Take the Ballymun turn off the M50 ...'

Me: 'I've already explained that I'd rather not take the M50. There must be a more direct route from where I live.'

Test-centre person: 'Hhmmm, I'm really just looking at the map you've already seen on the web, but let's see if I can help. Emmmmm ...'

[5 minutes later, after much toing and froing] Test-centre person: 'You could turn onto Santry Avenue off the old airport road and get to us from there ...'

Me: 'Now we're talking. Which turn off that road is Santry Avenue?'

[She eventually mentions a landmark I'm familiar with, I thank her, she asks what time I'm booked in for, she says I might as well come on over and 'we can take you right away'.]

So I head over, find the place and arrive there forty-five minutes early. Documentation inspected and fee of 49 euro handed over, it's in to the waiting area, where some twenty five people are already there ahead of me, most likely booked in for slots earlier than mine. An hour and a quarter later, having been slowly driven demented by the door of the waiting area banging loudly every time someone goes in or out and having suffered far too much exposure to Sky News spouting out the same three items of 'news' over and over and over and over again, my car is driven into the inspection area, gets connected up to diagnostic equipment, is put through the mill, and finally exits at the other end.

My name is called. I and the butterflies which have taken over my stomach exit for the dreaded chat.

Mr text person: 'Your car is fine'

Me: 'Excellent!'

Mr test person: 'BUT ... '

Me: [Gulp]

Mr test person: 'There's this problem here, you see. You have a nearside/offside imbalance of 59% in the suspension test for your rear axle. The maximum allowed is 30%.'

Me: 'You mean the car's failed?'

Mr test person: 'I'm afraid so. You'll have to get this seen to and come back for a re-test within 30 days. There'll be a re-test fee of 27 euro 50.'

Me: 'But the car just had a full service on Tuesday. I told them it was a pre-test service. They said the car was test-ready'

Mr test person: 'Well, these garages don't always have access to the same test equipment we use. I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. The figure's well above the permitted level, and I ran the test a few times to be sure. Sorry.'

So, after suffering the rigours of double exposure to a dreadful public transport experience, and after paying almost 450 euro for the garage service, I'm now told that the rear suspension 'may need to be replaced'! Why didn't the garage cop this? Why didn't they phone me about it if it needed attention? With all that and the distress of the bad feeling in my Music Group, this has turned into a week I desperately want to forget. And now I'm facing confrontation with the garage service department tomorrow. Oh dear!

I think I need a stiff gin ...