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.