Don't park there!

The Saab has a puncture. Well, there's a nail in the tyre. While its been holding pressure since we discovered it last month, I'm sure it'll eventually deflate if left unattended. As a result, I took the car into the local tyre shop today. What an experience!

I thought I'd stepped on to the sound stage of a television sitcom. First, as I drove into the repair bay and parked the car I was greeted by a stern rap on the window. "I'm sorry mate, you can't park your car there without authorisation. Please move it outside and report to reception." I duly reverse the car and double park behind another customer. A filthy look is offered from the passenger seat. I shrug.

Upon entering reception, the same gentleman that greeted me in the repair bay, now greets me from behind the reception desk. I describe the errant nail. "I see. Please can you drive your car into the repair bay Sir." "The one I was just parked in?" "Yes Sir." He's serious. I move the car back to its original parking spot. Is this Candid Camera?

The tyre is repaired. Now, a new slap stick routinue unfolds in reception as two rotund, grease-covered men in overalls attempt to print a receipt. Several paper jams later, accompanied by endless opening and closing of printer doors, removal of printing cartridges and paper trays, I'm presented with a well finger-printed invoice. The successful printer technician hands it over with a wide greasy, grin - complete with missing tooth.

I drive off and barely travel 100 metres before discovering that the boot is open and the lid is flapping widely. I attempt to pull over as a stream of impatient traffic nips at my heels. This is London. The street is narrow. The terrace houses lack driveways and parked cars line the street as far as the eye can see. In desperation I pull into the first driveway I can find. Disaster strikes. It's a daycare centre and the car behind me wants to drive in. Now I'm stuck in a driveway. Glaring parents are starting to pile up behind in their SUVs. Move over Mr Bean!

After much frantic arm waving in the rear vision mirror I'm finally able to reverse out of the driveway, close the boot and make my way home. The biggest joke of all? We're £146.50 poorer. Tyres aren't cheap in London.