With ten minutes until 9am, I pulled up to the front of the supermarket looking for a quick operation. In, grab breakfast, out. No fuss. All four parent-and-child spaces were vacant – the whole car park, in fact, was reasonably quiet. So I flicked the steering wheel to the left, grabbed the handbrake, and executed a beautiful slide sideways into one of the four parent-and-child spacesyes, this is a lie. Well done for spotting that.
As the tyre smoke cleared, an old boy (60, perhaps?) walked past my front end, either admiring my beautiful custom front radiator grille, or noting down my registration.
Five minutes later, the old boy would have gone up to the customer service desk in the supermarket, and helpfully informed them that some young scallywag driving a Golf with the registration XXXX XXX was abusing their facilities.
The customer services desk, obviously, would be horrified. What if four single mothers turned up at once, and all insisted on a space by the front door? That would not suffice. Have they any clamps? No. Then they must phone the police, trace the car registered XXXX XXX and commence court proceedings.
What probably ACTUALLY happened was that this guy went up to the customer services desk and helpfully informed them of the atrocity taking place on their asphalt. To which a middle aged blonde woman who had been working since 7am and had already had to cope with two screaming babies and a smashed jar of beetroot would grab this old codger by the lapels, pull his face close to hers, and spit at him “I. Don’t. Fucking. Care.”
I think I’m just veiling my fear of prosecution with a sheen of humour. I’m quaking on the inside.