I pass it quite often when I’m out running one of my usual routes.
Well, I say “pass”, but what I actually do is squeeze through whatever tiny gap they’ve been kind enough to leave for me, because this car is always parked across the footpath. Why do they do this? There could be any number of reasons, but they all boil down to the same thing: they’re an inconsiderate arsehole.
- I spot the bloody thing, three-quarters across the footpath.
- I note that, as usual, there’s a 30cm gap between car and hedge.
- I contemplate going around it, like a sensible person might do.
- That fleeting thought is quickly replaced by “Why the bloody hell should I run out into traffic just because this penis can’t park properly?”
- I grumble something vague about prams and wheelchairs.
- Without slowing my pace (because, once again, why should I?) I turn sideways on and shimmy into the gap.
- I see the wing mirror, and think “this time I’m definitely going to knock it slightly out of position. That’ll learn them”.
- I lean away from the wing mirror at the last moment, preferring to eat some hedge rather than cause fleeting inconvenience to someone who, just moments earlier, I’d decided was worse than Hitler.
- I continue on my journey, once again filled to the brim with impotent rage, cursing my inability to give someone a piece of my mind.
Every. Bloody. Time. I must’ve been through this exact same process a hundred times over. It’s like Groundhog Day, if Bill Murray had played a hairy little English man, stuffed full of swears. The only thing that changes is that, every time I pass this car, the feelings of injustice grow a little bit more. It’s now completely detached from any sense of reality, to the point where I put this unseen and unsuspecting car-parker in the same mental pigeonhole as Charles Manson, Skeletor and that baddy off of The Wire who’s always shooting people.
I’m trapped in that shitty oh-so-English position of not wanting to cause a fuss while still seething with indignation. I’ll never knock on their door and complain, I’ll never bump into the car accidentally-on-purpose, and even if I saw someone getting out of the car (having just parked it across my path like a big twat) I’d most likely just look at my shoes and mutter “sorry” for no reason as I squeezed past. Instead, my mechanism for dealing with this thing-that-shouldn’t-even-be-a-thing is to visualise unpleasant things happening to car and owner.
Examples that have worked well so far:
- They run out of petrol on the hottest day of the year, right in the middle of the sewage district.
- He buys one of those little tree-shaped air fresheners, but it turns out to be haunted.
- It goes in for a tyre rebalance and the final bill comes to £90,000,000.
- The car becomes sentient, like “Herbie Goes Bananas”, and straight away thinks his owner is a dick.
- The owner goes to fill up with petrol, but accidentally puts diesel in. And is then attacked by pirates.
- Plague of ducks.
It’s actually getting to the point where I’m looking forward to seeing the car parked that way, just so I can flex my imagination a bit and get some out of my system . It’s become my therapy. It’s quite nice, in fact.
He’s still a cock though.
Tenuous links for your “enjoyment”: An open letter to a considerate motorist
BIT AT THE END WITH LINKS AND STUFF.
Hello nice blog-reading person. That’s an ace jumper you’re wearing. Really brings out the colour of your ears. Anyway, cards on the table, there are actually only two people who read this blog: You, and some Swedish bloke called Bjorn Frijmagnet. It’d be great if you could spread the word and share some linkies to your favourite posts. The Internet has promised me a basket of kittens for every million hits I get, and I’m hoping to get enough to start a farm. Ta.