I rode into town unannounced and unknown – to all intents and purposes a man with no name. But as soon as I stepped out of the car I could tell that something was wrong – the hairs on the back of my neck sensing the evident unrest of those who had gathered just a few short paces from the pay-and-display machine.
To call them an angry mob may be to overstate it, but the furious eye-rolling and menacing tut-tutting were as obvious and every bit as intimidating as one might expect to find in a municipal car park on a Tuesday evening when the terms and conditions of leaving your vehicle there had been changed without public consultation.
With the crepuscular clouds that had followed me on my journey increasingly difficult to discern, and the day’s vestigial light fading from the sky, the atmosphere grew more and more tense and, with those present seeking now to apportion blame, I began to fear that things were about to turn ugly.
‘It’s your fault, mother – you’re on the council,’ said one young man, his show of apparent amusement barely able to conceal the sarcasm that dripped from his words – an expression perhaps of the pent-up frustration he felt as a consequence of the poor parenting he’d received at the hands of a woman who’d spent far too long at the Town Hall discussing traffic calming measures on a quiet industrial estate where few needed decelerating, rather than hurrying home to read her son his favourite bedtime story.
But ‘Where the Wild Things Are’, or rather were, was soon to become apparent. For it was then that I became aware of the penetrating gaze of a second woman, one that left me in no doubt at all that its owner meant business – and that the contract she had in mind had only one name on it. Mine.
‘Just so as you know,’ she whispered somewhat sinisterly, ‘I’m watching you.’ A silent moment passed before she continued, somewhat less sinisterly, and at a vastly more conventional volume. ‘And if things become unpleasant, I shan’t be held responsible for my actions. Because, never having used one of these ticket machines before, who knows what hell will be unleashed if you don’t show me how to work the infernal thing.’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she added, the hesitation in her voice exposing now an underlying vulnerability – perhaps the result of having been hurt too often by foolishly yielding to the temptation of opening the ‘JustPark’ app.
And so I returned her gaze and assured her I didn’t by proving myself the quickest ticket purchaser in Wiltshire – well almost – whilst simultaneously sharing with my now co-conspirator the mutual disgust we felt at being compelled to pay £1.10 for the 23 minutes that remained before the seemingly newly established free parking period began at 7pm – the punitive hour chosen being a full 60 minutes later than that deemed appropriate in towns overseen by more reasonable and right-thinking local government administrators.
Then, having followed my lead and secured permission to leave her own horseless carriage unattended, she stood a moment with me and we briefly considered riding on to the seat of power that had inflicted such injustice on its own beleaguered townspeople.
But then, remembering we both had more pressing matters to attend to, we walked slowly off into the sunset.
Which, given as we parted company in opposite directions, wasn’t as easy as you might think.
