nightmare

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.

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.