Inner life

Freud calls them Id, Ego, and Superego. He doesn't mean ego in the way that we use the word today. To me, Ego is just me.  Superego is my moral compass  and Id is a bit of a delinquent, the one who urges me to tell a smutty joke or have another glass of wine when I have already had enough. Id is also fearful of the world and sees dangers everywhere. 
 
So, when I took my car in for service today, Id reminded me that I had a slight altercation with them the last time.  He is right; I had booked the express service, but they said I hadn't. "Perhaps if you had booked on the phone, sir," the customer service agent had said, "instead of online."  Id had been furious and wanted me to get into a big argument, but I just made some sarcastic remark, which seemed to hit home. Anyway, that was a year ago, but Id reminded me of it today.  He was sure that they would have marked my record card in red pen, "difficult customer" and that would make for a dangerous encounter.  But then Id is sure that successive GPs have marked my medical records with the word "hypochondriac".
 
So I walked up to the service desk, mask on face. There were three service windows. Two were unmanned and one had two people sitting at it chatting.  They ignored me for a while and then casually looked up.  "Can I help you sir?" Id was getting agitated urging a sarcastic remark along the lines of "So sorry to interrupt your little tete a tete, this is the **ing service desk, what do you think I am here for?" I gave my name, but the service desk person canted his head on one side and said "what?"  I raised my voice slightly to say my name again, but Id managed to intercede at the last moment and turn the second name announcement into a shout.  Superego was watching, but detected no moral infringement so he stayed quiet.  
 
The man looked up my booking and then looked at me.  "Would you like to take a seat, sir?" I looked over at the confined seating area where an unmasked mum was trying to corral two noisy children.  "No thanks," I said, I'll wait here if that's okay."  Superego tut tutted because he thought I had no moral right to refuse to sit near the little family; who was I to judge mask-status or the decibel output of the little dears? 
 
The man behind the desk sighed and summoned an assistant. Id was sure this was because of my red pen record, the man clearly didn't want to deal with a troublemaker himself.  The newly arrived assistant asked me to confirm my details and then went into upselling mode, "Oil and fuel line flush, sir?" Id wanted me to ask why that wasn't part of the service already and why I should have to pay extra for it. Superego reminded me that I was in a customer/employee power relationship and should be polite.  "No thanks," I said to each of her upselling attempts.
 
"And when would you like to collect your car, sir?" Id was urging a smart-ass reply such as, "whenever you have finished wiping an oily rag over it."  Superego was watching over his pince-nez.  "I'm relaxed about it," I said, "but it would be good to collect it before the rush hour."  The assistant wrote something down. Id was sure it was, "make sure this car is not ready for collection before the rush hour."
 
And so it was, having picked up the car and paid the extortionate bill, I found myself in nose to tail rush hour traffic.  Id was smirking and had his "I told you so" face on.  He was sure that they added some more red pen to my record, gleefully recording that they had pulled back a goal or two. Superego reminded me that, in the spirit of fairness, I should report to you that rush hour can start at 3.30pm in this city and it was only 3.45pm at the time.
 
And now I am back home after a quick stop off for more cherry tree pictures.  I'm feeling a bit tired.  I think I need a glass of wine.  "Have two, or six," says Id.  "You don't want to have a hangover tomorrow," says Superego.  Oh well, I'll start with one and see how it goes.