residents

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 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.