Whenever they can’t get into their own parking space, this neighbour with an ageing silver Vauxhall keeps pinching mine. It’s the nearest spot I can find to park my car, right across the road from my cottage on a busy bend. It isn’t really my space, in fact it adjoins a large red sign saying No Parking, in the lay-by at the entrance to the building site. But the men haven’t been working for a couple of weeks, I used to park here long before they started building and put up the sign, that they can’t legally enforce as it’s a public highway, so it’s ‘my’ space.
Well, last night I got home and there was the usurper’s car again and I railed against him or her and cursed the Fates and uttered the usual foul imprecations, before parking in a huff on the other side of the entrance to the building site, not as good a spot as it partly blocks the gateway and might necessitate having to move again in the morning, if the men showed up. The other driver must luckily have driven away later, because when I went out to my car this morning there was no sign of the silver Astra. In its place was a section of the security barrier guarding the site from importunate motorists, that my curses had evidently brought down in the storm during the night.
Had I been parked there, as I should have been, it would have fallen on my lovely Alfa Romeo, doubtless snapping-off the one remaining door handle. I am grateful for this serendipitous deliverance to the other driver, for a few hours at least. And, of course, to my dear friend the Parking Angel, without whom… .