Wednesday 3rd December 2025

Posted on by Weston Rode

A bleak revelation tonight: I’m not entirely convinced anyone who actually lives on West End Road has managed to park on West End Road. Returned home to discover the place thoroughly jammed with unfamiliar cars, like some sort of motoring flash mob. Not a single recognisable vehicle among them.

So, once again, I trundled off to the station car park—three-quarters full, naturally—and wedged the van into the only spot that didn’t require a six-point turn. Passed the Missus’s car languishing in the pub car park, still sitting there like a hostage. The pub folk will surely kick off tomorrow. I’m tempted to leave a note on the dash reading “We live here, honest.” Doubt it will help.

As for the young couple with the baby—no earthly idea where they’ve ended up parking tonight. Possibly Cleethorpes. Possibly Hull. Certainly not anywhere within pram-pushing distance.

Adding insult to injury, a Mini has parked outside my house in such a way that it’s occupying two spaces. Two. A Mini. Either Minis have begun to swell like bread dough, or the driver is simply catastrophically bad at parking. I know which theory my money’s on.

These interlopers show every sign of settling in for a long stay. Wonderful. This means I’ll be forced to battle commuters later on just to get a space in the already-cramped station car park when I attempt to do something radical like buy food.

Seriously, East Midlands Railway—when are you going to expand your car park? At this rate, residents will have to start tethering cars vertically up lampposts just to reclaim a bit of turf. The whole thing feels like a social experiment gone wrong, and West End Road is the unwilling laboratory.

Saturday 29th November 2025

Posted on by Weston Rode

Grey skies, grey pavements, grey mood. The whole day looked like it had been dipped in dishwater. Ventured out for essential weekend survival supplies—bread, milk, and the faint hope that civilisation might one day return to West End Road.

Next door must have done the same, because by the time we got back the street was once again choked with non-resident cars. An entire metallic menagerie of hatchbacks and SUVs, all dumped here by people who treat our road like Meadowhall’s overflow car park. I imagine them prancing around the shopping centre buying novelty festive socks, completely oblivious to the chaos they’ve left behind. Nothing spreads Christmas cheer quite like making a village uninhabitable.

The young couple have been ousted again. Their spot was swallowed by strangers within minutes of them leaving. When they returned, they resorted to commandeering the taxi rank just to unload all their baby-related gubbins. Watched them shuffle back and forth like sherpas while trains screeched past, contributing to the festive ambiance.

As for me, I’m currently parked halfway round the village. No room in the station car park, no room in the pub car park, no room anywhere. My van is now essentially a nomadic wanderer, doomed to roam Habrough like a lost soul.

Thanks, EMR. Really feeling the magic of the season.

Sunday 23rd November 2025

Posted on by Weston Rode

Excellent news from the frontline. The hedonistic middle-aged couple—the ones who had been lounging across two parking spaces as if reclining on a chaise longue of asphalt—have finally abandoned their weekend of debauchery and driven off. I imagine their car groaned with relief at being released from its position of obscene luxury.

Their departure created a rare and fleeting window of opportunity, and the young couple seized it with the speed and stealth of SAS operatives. Their car is now safely nestled in that precious gap. For the first time in days, they actually look like people who live on this street rather than commuters squatting outside it.

Meanwhile, under the cover of darkness, we staged our own covert operation. Successfully relocated the Missus’s car from the pub car park to the station. A narrow escape, as the pub folk were beginning to radiate the unmistakable aura of people preparing to “have words.” Felt like smuggling a stolen relic across enemy lines.

Life on West End Road has become a strange game of musical chairs—except instead of music there’s just the distant clatter of trains and the hollow sound of residents’ souls leaving their bodies when they see a stranger’s car outside their house.

Saturday 22nd November 2025

Posted on by Weston Rode

Still no luck getting the Missus’s car anywhere near the house. It’s still sitting there in the pub car park like a shameful secret we’re hoping nobody notices. I’ve got a horrible suspicion it’ll be marooned there all weekend. The pub lot will definitely kick off at some point, and then we’ll have to move it under cover of darkness and pray there’s a space free at the station. It’s like playing Parking Roulette, except the stakes are domestic harmony and my remaining sanity.

Meanwhile, I need to go to the DIY shop, but I daren’t move my van. The very moment I roll an inch off West End Road, I know—absolutely know—that some opportunistic rail passenger will swoop in and steal my space before my brake lights have even faded. The thought of buying all the stuff I need, only to have to lug it across from the station car park like some pack mule of despair, fills me with dread.

It’s becoming clear that life near a train station isn’t so much residential living as it is a long, ongoing psychological experiment. It’s like a tragic chapter in the decline of civilisation.

The same Day 15:44

A fresh development in the ongoing saga of West End Road parking misery. The young couple with the baby have made the rookie error of actually going out for the day in their own car. A tactical blunder of the highest order. When they returned, their spot had already been commandeered by what can only be described as a wandering free spirit in an ancient silver Micra, complete with L-plate hanging on for dear life.

Watched them emerge from the vehicle with a gigantic red rucksack—one of those “I’m off to find myself” bags that suggests the owner won’t return for at least forty-eight hours, possibly longer if they accidentally join a commune. They marched towards the station with purpose, blissfully unaware of the domestic carnage they were leaving in their wake.

I strongly suspect that the Micra is going to be welded to that kerb until the next lunar cycle. I will of course continue to monitor the situation with the appropriate level of seriousness and provide updates as events unfold. The street deserves nothing less than a dedicated chronicler of its ongoing doom.

Friday 21 November 2025

Posted on by Weston Rode

Success! Finally managed to manoeuvre my tiny van into a spot outside my house. For a fleeting moment I felt like life was going my way. That feeling was swiftly obliterated. Someone—clearly heading off on the train for a decadent weekend of leisure—has parked outside the young couple’s house. I know this because they had wheely suitcases, which is the universal sign of someone who will not be returning for at least two days and therefore does not care whom they inconvenience.

They’ve taken up two spaces. Two! A feat of geometry so appalling it should be taught in schools as a cautionary tale. So the young couple have lost their spot again, and another poor soul who might have fitted in neatly behind them has also been robbed of hope.

Brilliant. Simply brilliant. The ongoing epic of West End Road parking continues, and I appear to be its reluctant chronicler.

Unfortunately the Missus wasn’t blessed with my fleeting moment of good luck. She arrived home, car loaded with Tesco bags, only to discover that every square inch of road had been colonised by the same inconsiderate parkers who seem to believe West End Road is their personal long-stay train station car park. She ended up abandoning the car in the pub car park, looking like a defeated explorer who’s just realised the map was upside down the whole expedition.

She rang me, of course, because who else is going to help her haul twenty tonnes of groceries across the tundra? Instead of slipping into the warm house and putting the kettle on, the two of us shuffled across the icy pavements like pensioners on an Antarctic expedition, bags digging into our fingers, carrier handles threatening to snap under the weight of milk, bread, and the eternal burden of living near a train station.

If this keeps up, I may have to write to the council, or at least start a diary documenting my descent into madness.

Monday 17 November 2025

Posted on by Weston Rode

Arrived home at 19:30 after a 13½ hour shift. Felt like some sort of tragic hero returning from battle, except instead of glory I’d only earned chilblains and a suspiciously soggy trouser leg. Spent the entire day outside in conditions that would make a penguin ask for a jumper. Had built up a romantic fantasy of stepping into a warm house and eating something that wasn’t rain-flavoured.

Turned into West End Road, expecting peace and civilisation. Instead, found a scene resembling the last days of Rome, but with hatchbacks. Cars parked everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. Couldn’t even get within waving distance of my own home to park. Considered sitting in the van and weeping, but decided instead to try the station car park. Miraculously there was one space left, one! I imagine some commuter abandoned it seconds before, probably off to somewhere warm and snug.

Walked home through drizzle so fine it felt personal. At least Andy has managed to plonk his van—with all his tools—right outside his house, so he can keep an eye on it like some sort of territorial heron. The young couple next door, with the baby, haven’t been so lucky. Nowhere near their house. Couldn’t help imagining them dragging pram, shopping, baby paraphernalia, and the general despair of adulthood across the estate. Felt oddly guilty, even though it wasn’t my fault.