An act of plucky Brit defiance hits its mark
[The events recorded in this post occurred yesterday and regular readers will be familiar with my suspicion that I am under constant surveillance by organs of the British Government in its attempt to persecute me for spurious driving offences, most particularly speeding on UK roads. For the above reason I have disguised the exact location of what happened.]
Currently engaged in working with a colleague upon a business project, for the past three weeks I have been travelling almost daily to his house.
About half a mile short of his abode there is an emporium belonging to a well-known chain of coffee houses at which – if I have arrived early enough to stop off before reporting for duty at 8.00am – I pick up a takeaway triple-shot expresso coffee, the better to wake myself up and render myself compus mentis for the slog ahead.
On the road outside said establishment there is a formal run-off area, rather like one of those habitually created for buses so that they may drop off and pick up passengers without disrupting the smooth running of other traffic.
Given its location – and indeed the fact that it does not contain a bus stop – it would be perfectly natural for the average driver of any vehicle to assume that part of its purpose is to allow motorists to pull in, the better to park and nip into said premises for the purpose of either buying a takeaway triple-shot expresso coffee or even (in circumstances in which they are feeling a little weary and, being mindful of Governmental road signs warning ‘Tiredness Kills’), with commendable public-spiritedness decide to pull in, stretch their legs and consume a hot beverage and/or perhaps a croissant or slice of Bakewell tart, in order to prevent themselves – or rather their vehicle – becoming a lethal killing machine.
Yesterday, as per my previously-mentioned daily routine, I made unusually good progress and accordingly reached said retail unit at approximately 7.30am, half an hour before my scheduled arrival for work.
Having pulled up and parked right outside I l locked my car and entered to go and stand in line to be served. There were two other customers in front of me and, when my turn came, I ordered and was then given a triple-shot expresso coffee ‘to go’ (cost £3.50 or thereabouts).
Having collected my paper cup with lid containing the dark brown liquid of my desire, I turned to depart and immediately noticed that outside, in a light midway between darkness and daylight, was an instrument of Governmental surveillance and revenue-collection in the form of a large traffic warden standing on the pavement in front of my car dressed in a green version of a uniform last seen (by most Brits old enough) upon an officer of the Waffen SS.
Steeped in knowledge of TV series such as Colditz and movies such as The Great Escape, Ingolby instinctively knew that the vital thing [think the WW2 wartime poster ‘Keep Calm And Carry On’] was to keep his cool and, above all, remain understated and apparently confident.
I therefore sauntered out onto the pavement as if I had not a care in the world and in my best pidgin French/German accent asked if said gentleman was about to issue – or already had given – me a parking ticket.
He announced that indeed he was, adding that technically, once he had begun writing one he had to continue and (barely able to disguise his relish at the situation) adding the word “Sir” for good, ironic, measure.
Relying upon my inbuilt store of British reserve I sought to give the impression that I was taking all this in my stride.
“Okay then – well, since you have given me a ticket, I’m going to relax and go back inside for a bit of breakfast …”
Without waiting for the full majesty of my contempt to sink in, I then turned on my heel and went back inside the coffee shop. I couldn’t quite see whether he was still writing the parking ticket or alternatively, shamed and possibly resentful, he was just watching me, but in case it was the latter I then felt obliged to re-join the queue at the counter and order myself another triple-shot expresso – this time to consume in.
Twenty minutes later I arrived at my work destination feeling slightly smug at having ‘faced down’ a state officer in yet another confrontation with the Government’s traffic authorities in their vindictive campaign to disrupt my quiet enjoyment of life and the roads of this green and pleasant land.
That would teach them! I could now live to fight another day in the cause of Brexit and the general global movement to reject the uncaring and undemocratic arrogance of the world’s ‘Establishment’.
It was only when I had returned home at about 5.00pm last night after struggling through the inevitable Friday night London rush hour and opened the yellow-coated parking ticket that I began wondering how on earth I was going to be able to afford the penalty charge of £110 (or £55 if I choose to pay it within 14 days).
