EMISSIONS:I'D HAD a bad day, even by my standards. An hour's work had disappeared in a fizz of pixels when my foot decided – for some reason unbeknownst to me – to kick the power cable out of my computer, writes KILIAN DOYLE
Then I queued for 25 minutes for lunch, before promptly dropping it into a dank puddle. Finally, I’d spent the train journey home being crushed between a mountain of a man with body odour that would fell a mammoth and a shuddering, snivelling woman suffering from what I suspect was ebola.
Unsurprisingly, I was in no mood for the threatening letter from eFlow that awaited me when I got home (just in time to see my daughter force-feeding a fistful of sand to the cat).
eFlow said that I’d driven through the M50 toll in my car on a previous Saturday afternoon and sent me a bill for €6, including a €3 penalty for non-payment. To compound things, the letter had been delayed in the post and the deadline for coughing up had passed, meaning I now faced an additional fine of €41.50.
There are two things wrong with this. Firstly, on point of principle, I refuse to use the M50 toll. Why should we pay for something that’s been paid for umpteen times already?
Secondly, at the exact time eFlow claimed I was using their precious road, I was outside a communion party, clinging on for dear life to a bouncy castle that had been lifted off the ground by a gust of wind and was threatening to fly off over the Wicklow Mountains with my gurning two-year-old son inside. To further reinforce matters, while I was doing this, my car was parked outside my house, 15 miles away.
Fuming though I was at eFlow’s numptyism, in a bizarre way, I was quite pleased. For what better way is there to let off a stressful day’s steam than ripping shreds off some faceless, nameless unfortunate in a call centre?
They’d just handed me the perfect opportunity and by golly, I was going to enjoy it. But before launching my tirade, I sat down and calmly jotted down my plan of attack.
“Am I registered for eFlow?” I’d ask. “No. And have you any record of me ever passing through the toll? No. And what does that tell you? That I don’t – and won’t – use it.”
I’d explain there were 20 witnesses to my castle-flying exploits. And that they were all willing to swear sniggering affidavits to that effect.
I’d point out that, unless a joyrider had stolen my car and driven it down the M50 at precisely the time of the alleged offence before returning it undamaged to my driveway, they’d botched up. I’d then demand a groveling public apology and a free lifetime pass for every toll in the country.
Armed and ready, I dialled the number.
Ten minutes later, I was still on hold, tormented by Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now. That does strange things to a man. “Don’t you worry, Freddie,” I muttered into the phone, conspiratorially. “Nothing’s going to stop me from tearing the next human I speak to a new orifice.”
Eventually, 56 verses later, a voice. “Hello, how can I help?”
“I’ve been billed for a journey I didn’t do,” said I, gearing up for my diatribe. “And. . .”
“Ah,” it interrupted. “Registration number?”
I told her.
“I’m very sorry, Mr Doyle,” it said. “There’s been a mistake. Sometimes these things happen. You know how it is. I’ll cancel that immediately. Can I help you with anything else?”
Disgusted, I dropped the phone. They’d capitulated so fast I hadn’t a chance to unleash my furious anger on them. I’d been foiled by their craven willingness to unquestioningly admit their utter incompetence. How disappointing.
I went outside and punched a hole in the garden shed. It hurt. A lot. But I felt immeasurably better.