On an unremarkable January morning, my car reunites with an old foe.
Battle scars still healing from their last brutal encounter, she needs some coaxing as she reluctantly chugs through Cardiff city centre.
Then, suddenly, there it is - her arch nemesis. A grey behemoth glowering over the road below, dismal concrete harsh against a white sky. Silent and lifeless, save for the flickering of a strip light or the glint of metal through its prison-like slits.
The NCP car park on Westgate Street stands tall in all its ruthless glory.
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Indiscriminate with its combat, the car park has made enemies of vehicles of all shapes and sizes across the city. So much so that 231 customers decided to leave reviews on Google - the majority of them affording the building one disgruntled star, making it the city's lowest-rated.
Admittedly, there are some who were left unperturbed by their encounters with Westgate Street's NCP.
"Secure and safe," writes Conrad, while Steve remarks that it's "easy to use".
Jim commends the "friendly helpful staff" and Elaine points out it is "great" for concerts and close to the centre - perfectly placed if you want to pay a visit to Cardiff Castle or the Principality Stadium.
But others aren't so forgiving.
Stewart brands it the "worst car park" in the city, insisting that anything bigger than a mini will struggle to fit in the parking bays.
David agrees, adding: "Too small for modern size cars. Lots of tight turns and pillars preventing you opening your door."
"I thought I was parking my car, not buying shares in the company," says Chris. "£19 for 4 hours to park in a giant toilet. Never again."
"Lift areas and stairwells reeked of urine," complains Katryn.
Despite my previous bad experience, in the name of journalism I've come to pay another visit. This time will be different, I think to myself. My car whirrs softly in agreement as we inch towards the barrier, disregard the sign with eye-watering tariffs (£4.75 for one hour, it shamelessly proclaims), and tentatively press a button for a ticket.
The barrier goes up and we edge closer to the entrance. "Welcome to Westgate Street Car Park," a cheerful yellow sign tells us. Promising so far.
But then - the first obstacle: a shutter - grey and resolutely shut. "Approach shutter slowly to enter," a sign tells us. Is this a warning?
Too late. The beast awakens at our arrival, opens its jaws and swallows us whole. Its mouth closes behind us, locking us in.
We're greeted by rows of cars, crammed together beneath a low ceiling, concrete pillars standing between them like prison guards. They're waiting, patient but terrified - a well-ordered purgatory before they are finally returned to the outside world.
Scrape marks on the pillars and ramp walls quietly betray the plight of thousands of other unsuspecting drivers. They too attempted to contort their vehicles into the matchbox spaces, or manoeuvre through the tight turns of the ramps between levels - but instead were forced to pay the price for their misplaced confidence.
I drive forward, look either side for spaces, but find none. I try to stifle my confusion as to how this car park is so popular, and notice that some cars are squeezed in so close to pillars that their doors will not open at all. Is this building a last, inconvenient resort for those who are in a rush, I wonder?
I forge on ahead, then slow down as I approach the end of the level. Wrestling with the steering wheel, I squeeze round the corner.
I crane my neck to make sure my bonnet doesn't get an angry cuff from the building for getting too close. I hold my breath, straighten my car...
Success - no injuries to report. I let out a sigh of relief, drive up the slope, steel myself for the next ordeal.
Rinse and repeat for four levels - until an empty space appears amidst a row of vehicles. Tempting, but dangerous, like a Siren. Its width is uncomfortably tight: an unyielding pillar on one side, another vehicle on the other. My car winces in familiarity and nurses its wounds (it fell victim to the inconveniently placed pillar last time).
But I am determined. Breathe in. Reverse, drive forward, reverse again. Slowly angle the nose of my car towards the bay, like a diver poised on the edge of a cliff.
Then, I'm ready. Gripping the steering wheel, I accelerate, slowly, but surely, inching forward, my parking sensors beeping madly all the while, begging me to abort my mission.
And...I'm now a comfortable distance from the pillar - but too close to the car on my right. I can't get out. Drat. Round two: reverse, adjust the wheels and try again...
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Success, at long last. It's a tight squeeze, but not entirely suffocating. I turn off the ignition, and my car lets a sigh of relief, exhausted with the effort - but thankfully, this time, unscathed.
Parking done, there's still more to investigate. Stepping out of the car, I walk to the narrow stairwell, with jarring black and white brickwork. My nostrils are immediately hit with a musty smell - though, unlike last time, the whiff of urine isn't overwhelming, probably diluted by the dampness.
The ground is mysteriously wet, with water dripping in random areas of the staircase. An unidentifiable mushy substance is on the floor on one level, grimly exposed by the harsh strip lights above. I step over it, through doors with flaking blue paintwork.
The lifts offer some salvation - though full of that same strong aroma, they're clean and functional, if rather small.
I exit the car park. Grateful for the fresh air, I feel rather joyful at my victory and behold the building with some smugness.
But my joy is short-lived when I go to pay my ticket: £9.50 for just two hours. Unbelievable. I suppose the beast has to get the last laugh somehow.
(NCP declined to comment.)
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