The manladies a few doors down were hosting a party the other night. Unluckily for me, my parking space is all but in their garden, and they decided to take advantage by allowing their friends to park in my space.
Now we know how tetchy people are about their parking spaces. Road rage doesn’t only comprise actual roads, at least not in housing complexes.
Woe betide the person who parked in the old granny’s spot at my old flat. She may only take her 1972 Ford Estcourt out once a week to do her groceries, but she’d wave her cane about like a criminally insane individual and even say words like ‘fuck’ and ‘bastard’ if someone parked behind her.
Grannies get all holier than thou when it comes to vocal obscenities. That is, until someone fucks with their parking space.
So with that in mind, people get anal about their parking. Even I. Park in mine if you know I’m not there or whatever, fine. But park in mine when there is ample visitors parking? And you’re blocking me in? I’m actually THERE and trying to move?
Before the irritation began to bubble beneath the surface of my Type A skin, I realise fast that this situation was to be different of times past. Normally when this happens it goes something like this:
‘Hi, could you please ask your friend to move so that I can get out?’
Neighbour: Oh I do apologise, they were only going to be here for five minutes. They’ll move their car immediately.
Peas: Thanks very much.
But hark. Sylvesterina Stallone was in town.
Peas walks up to car, obliterated by other car. A lot of activity is happening in the house adjacent, the manladies are entertaining. And I really REALLY don’t want to interrupt. Trust me.
Fear grips me like farmer who has just watched Children Of The Corn.
Fuck. Have to go over there and….bitch.
Peas: Hi….terribly sorry to interrupt, I need to reverse out of here, so if your friend wouldn’t mind moving their car?
Woman of undeterminable sex with hunormous muscles and formidable mullet: ‘Is there a problem?’
Peas: [now trembling] Sort of. Only slightly. It’s just that…I can’t really move my car. Out. At all. Sooooooooo terribly sorry.
If This Were Going The Way Nature Intended: Yes there’s a problem. Tell your mate to park in a visitors spot, not mine. So we can avoid this confrontation altogether.
Muscled Mullet: Stacey? STACEY? Please move your car for a second. What time are you coming back?
Peas: Can’t really be sure. But if she parks in the, um, visitors parking, then I won’t have to bother you again.
If This Were Going The Way Nature Intended: Listen freak. Why is she in my spot anyway? MOVE. HER. NOW. And I don’t want to see this car blocking my space when I return at whatever time I decide to return, are we clear?
Muscled Mullet: She’ll park back there, and you will call us back and she’ll move. What time are you coming back?
Peas: [Deep breath. Keep cool.] I really can’t say. It might be easier if she just uses the….designated visitors parking. [My God she’s going to throat slam me]
If This Were Going The Way Nature Intended: Security? We have a situation here.
Muscled Mullet: 10,11pm?
If This Were Going The Way Nature Intended: Oh and Security? Send one of the more strapping lads to the scene.
Peas: I don’t want to make promises as to what time I return. This is kinda…my parking bay.
She inches closer.
Muscled Mullet: Call us when you get home. We will move her car.
If This Were Going The Way Nature Intended: Why are we still having this conversation? I’m. Losing. My. Shit. Here. Next time I have a napover, I’ll make fucking sure they park in your bay. And trust me, it’ll be a 10 metre long freight truck.
Oh and another thing – get your cat to stop fornicating on my bonnet.
Peas: Sure…I’ll just call you then bye.
Scuttle off. Highly peeved.
That woman knew that she could squash me like a bug. Flashing her Arnie muscles and flicking her mullet and talking in an alto man-voice.
Fuck I’m cross. She used manliness to intimidate me. Next time her cat shits on my car, that by-product will be used to write a sign that says:
‘PRIVATE PARKING SPACE. FIT IN OR FUCK OFF.’
Or something. Or something.
Intimidating me with your super-dykeness. That’s just evil.
I will think of something, when I pluck up the courage. And it will involve a man the size of a brick shithouse.
It’s not over until the fat lady sings.