It’s at trying times like these that my latent inner-bimbo gene struggles to reassert itself.
It’s at trying times like these that my latent inner-bimbo gene struggles to reassert itself. Sod equal rights, sod women’s lib and to hell with emancipation. When my car mysteriously vanished outside Waitrose last Friday night I was immediately engulfed by a pathetically primal desire to play the role of helpless victim. I’d parked in good faith — albeit in a bay that had not one, but two large suspension notices; I’d carefully read both signs and deduced that the middle spaces were up for grabs. I’d overfed the meter, displayed my ticket and yet when I staggered out of the supermarket, fingers garrotted and white with the volume of heavy bags I was carrying, my car had totally disappeared. I stood frozen in the space it had once occupied and wondered if this was how Alzheimer’s began. I reread the signs and then pointlessly crossed the road, as though by giving myself some distance it might cause it magically to reappear. Then I went into the drycleaners and asked a man who was a doppelganger for Borat if he knew what had happened to my car. He didn’t speak a syllable of English, but helpfully managed to mime. He mimed a clawed hand grabbing an imaginary object and holding it airborne for a few seconds before tossing it viciously in the direction of Christian Louboutin’s shop opposite. I thanked him, went back outside, dumped my shopping on the pavement and telephoned my husband.
‘My car’s been stolen,’ I announced.
‘Why?’ asked Johnnie.
‘Because it’s not here anymore. I parked it and now it’s gone.’
‘Maybe you parked it somewhere else,’ he suggested.
‘No, I didn’t. It’s been nicked.’
‘Do you think there’s any possibility it might have been towed?’ he asked gently.
‘Possibly,’ I said before bursting into tears. ‘Help me. Everything’s starting to melt. Including me.’
Johnnie took me home, where we proceeded to spend a terse 30 minutes trying to ‘locate my vehicle’. This should have been a relatively simple exercise, but because I was unable to ‘locate’ — let alone remember — my number plate it meant we had to sift through appallingly filed files to find documents before anyone would reveal the exact whereabouts of my car. Eventually we unearthed an insurance policy, telephoned the pound and spoke to a somnolent-sounding man named Medley in Lots Road, who suddenly came to life when confirming my car had been clamped.
‘Bring logbook, credit card, driving licence down here,’ he drawled. ‘No hurry. Take your time.’
‘I’m fairly certain my car was legally parked,’ I informed Medley as soon as I arrived. ‘The signs were very confusing.’
‘Maybe,’ he replied, laboriously filling out my removal fee receipt. ‘That happens. I’m giving you a representation form and you fill it in. It’s easy. Keep your pay and display ticket. That shows you paid for your parking.’
‘I did,’ I replied earnestly.
‘That’s good,’ murmured Medley. ‘Appeal and you’ll probably win. High success rate.’
He pushed a buzzer beneath his desk and the metal door to the car park swung open. It was only then that I realised I’d left my car keys at home.