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.