* If not, Berty would get us our first fine and he’d get towed. He’d get thrown in lockup! And knowing his owner, he’d pick up the soap…
The temporary parking restriction
It’s likely because I’m an idiot, but I have a little difficulty interpreting temporary parking restriction notices. At first glance, they look perfectly reasonable. On deeper inspection, it’s like whoever wrote it strung some English together and called it a sentence. They then strung a few of them together and got a paragraph. A few of those, a whole notice!
All in a hard days work.
So sure that what they’ve written makes perfect sense.
The main problem, I find, is that I don’t know road names. So I read these random words strung together, learn about random places, and don’t know what the hell’s going on.
The other problem is that this person writes a lot like how I write, in that they’ve remembered bits and added them in quickly, there and then. Where I would re-read and agonise the edit, they’re more confident. They’ve read what they’ve seen, understood what they know, sorted.
For the bloke here who likes things spelt out so there’s no confusion, random words, random places, and random rememberings, cause no end of problems because I wind up questioning myself.
I may understand something perfectly well but the question always is, do I, though? Shining a bright light in my face: Nah.
For Victorious, I gave up trying to decipher the parking restrictions and parked on the forecourt outside my flat, much to my Landlord’s chagrin. (The spare space is reserved for guests, primarily his guests, and by ‘guests’ I mean 3rd car.)
For this weekend’s Great South Run, I intended to the same. Give-up. Park outside my flat for the sheer convenience. But when I spoke to the Landlord’s missus, she was odd. She is naturally quite odd but was much odder than usual. She was very for my idea, and a great supporter over Victorious, but she was strange about it. It was like she was being sarcastic but caught herself doing it so was trying not to be, because she didn’t mean to be, but she was. Very strange. So strange, in fact, that I thought I’d have another crack at that parking notice.
I sat down with a pen and a map, resisted the urge to mark it, and went through the notice line by line.
It transpired, of all its 100s of words, only 32 related to me. I could park where I usually park, if I got a spot. And all I couldn’t do was drive between 945 and 3 on Sunday. If I decided to drive during those hours I’d run over a runner.
So, that’s what I did.
I parked where I normally park ’cause I got a spot and I left the car there all weekend.
Because there’s always room for misunderstanding, I checked on Berty regularly to make sure he hadn’t been towed.
So I guess, I spent my weekend mildly worrying for nothing. I’ve also spent my Monday evening regaling a lovely little tale about parking restrictions. And to think, I’ve been told that I don’t know how to live.
Oh, I did P!nk tickets.
Is it June yet?