Friday, 28 October 2016
Shit Parking tests metal knees.
I tried to post this last week and then learned that the photo hadn't appeared and so I reckon the story could not have made much sense. The old computer gremlins at work again huh? Anyway I think I have fixed the problem and so here it is again.
Yep I reckon if I was a prossie, a lady of the night, or a beck and call girl, and I wanted to advertise my wares I might get a number plate like this.
ooooooh aaaahhhh Bed baby? Now? anytime?
And if I wanted to make sure that any prospective punters could expect a classy bit of tail, then I might pop the number plate on a pricey car to let 'em know that their money would be usefully spent and if I was so inclined, I might also pop a large photo of a perfect set of teeth so that the Johns would also know that dental hygiene is important to me, or maybe a glamour shot of pert boobies, although maybe a different body part photo would be a better advertisement, but as I am not in the game I am not sure.!
I don't have a personalised plate, probably because I lack the imagination to come up with anything that would suit me everyday.
Sometimes, when some dick forces their way into my lane without a gesture of thanks or a little beep or a twinkle of the indicator, I'd like it if my car cried out, MANNERS. And sometimes when I am just tootling along in no rush, just enjoying the scenery, it'd be cool if my car could gently encourage other drivers to, Smell the Roses.
There could be all manner of sage advice that could be succinctly popped onto the plates, but they'd have to do a Bondy 007 rotation to accommodate moods and circumstances I reckon.
I am an average sort of driver. I don't routinely get too stressed about speedy bully pushy fools and I don't bully or tailgate, or flip people the finger when they piss me off. I am not vindictive about letting people in and will pull over on a single lane road to let speedy gonzalies pass, mostly cos I don't like the stress of 'em being right on my bumper.
I quite like driving, and have only ever had one accident.
I was 20 and had just bought a brand new lovely blue car. It was only 2 months old and I smashed the shit out of it. I was never sure how that happened. I took responsibility for the crash, cos the bloke walloped me on the right, even though I reckon the fellow must have really been moving. Ho hum hey. My fault, thankfully there was insurance.
So one accident in nearly 40 years, that's not too bad.
But because I imagine my little Mazda 2 is the size of a tank when it comes time to park up, I am pretty careful. I will take a couple of runs at it if necessary, just to make sure that I am in the bay properly and I can reverse park if needs be, but I don't like it if someone is watching me cos I don't do well with that extra pressure. It really is a sort of obsession and one that means that generally speaking my little girl goes unscathed by dickheads shoving open their car doors onto her. There is always room, and if there isn't any room, I drive on somewhere else. Yeh cos I think I am parking a tank, I have been known to start out shopping at one place and finish up being somewhere else. But I can always get in and out of the girl with ease.
Always that is, unless some fuck pulls up alongside and literally throws their car in with wild abandon such as would definitely please a bed partner, but definitely not please an overweight old woman with 2 fake knees.
Such was the case on Wednesday in Brisvegas. We returned to the car after a meal celebrating the Grandie Boy's Martial Art's grading, to find 00BED parked up so close that I could not open my door. I slid sidewards between the 2 cars. I backed out and tried going in the other way. I backed in and fronted in and tried hard to vapourise myself so I could float in. I worked up quite the sweat trying to get in. I swore loudly and badly and my girl went looking for the dick who had parked up with so little regard for anyone else.
People came offering assistance. People came for an incredulous look see. People came to wonder about the fat old woman with the bucket mouth. I was not very gracious, cos I was single mindedly trying to work out how to get in.
Finally, after giving the side of my car a damn fine dusting with my hitherto clean outfit, I decided to try going in from the passenger side.
Now, in my dotage, I can happily recall times in my youth when clambering all over the front seats of cars dodging steering wheels and gear sticks, lead to moments of uncomfortable joy, but those were skinny times of fully functional joints, and now are only fond memories.
I tried going in face first...Useless! So I sat and shimmied - no not in a good way. Spread-eagled, I arse planted from one seat to the other and then slowly managed to get enough bend from the metal knees to pull myself over the hand brake and the gear stick and seat belt thingy, into place. Damage to my nether regions was a risk I needed to take. I am pretty sure that the sweat thankfully added to my 'slipperbility'. I puffed and panted and people of the Panel Van, 'If the van's a rocking don't come a knocking' era, would have given my car a wide birth for fear of interrupting an intimate moment.
Finally, I tucked my side mirror in and reversed out slowly, pausing to take the photo, wishing that I had some old piece of shit car that I could have tossed willy-nilly at 00BED.
The owner didn't return.
A note was placed under the windscreen wiper. It was vehement and angry and rude and perhaps just a little shocking. I wanted to do some bad bad word name calling in red lippy all over their windscreen but my girl thought that not a good idea. I am still a little sorry that I pulled up short on that.
I kept thinking that as I am pretty cool calm and collected in a car, especially when I have precious cargo, that my reaction was quite extreme. I can only imagine what would have become of the car park had a hot head been so stupidly parked in.
It's unlikely that anyone who so completely disregards others as to park so shockingly, will give a rat's arse about the note, but I like to think that perhaps they will be encouraged to get a smaller car, and if they want to advertise their wares, then maybe they could sit on a street corner on a bed wearing a sandwich board sign saying, 'Come and get me'. Whether they mean themselves or the bed can remain delightfully vague.