Since the local council’s campaign to criminalise driving started, I’ve been seeking a space to park in the morning that 1. Doesn’t cost a small fortune and 2. Means my wheels will still be in place when I return. It’s not easy. It means that I now leave my car a good ten minutes walk from the station. I know that makes me sound like a lazy oaf who doesn’t deserve two good legs but it’s a long way in the mornings. It’s far from ideal. And apparently not just for me.
When I returned to my car this evening there was a notice under my windscreen wipers. “Damn it!” was my first thought. But it wasn’t a parking ticket. In some ways, it was both more irritating and more sinister. ‘THIS IS NOT A RAILWAY CAR PARK’ it said, and ‘WE HAVE YOUR NUMBER’ it added ominously. I looked to see any sign of the culprit’s twitching curtain but everything was still. As I stared at the note again, it was clearly an old person’s hand. And that left me confused - I wanted to be cross but in the end I just felt guilty. It won’t be long before I’m parking just off my own drive and walking the rest of the three miles. Arse.