© Julia Welstead

I’m ashamed of myself this morning.  Here I am reading and supposedly taking in the teachings of Buddha (cf “Buddha’s Brain” by……..): learning all about mindfulness, happiness, compassion, and kindness to fellow man yet, when it came to the bit, I was speechless with anger and what should have been a neighbourly smile came over as a grimace. Damn, must try harder.

To explain: parking in my home street is at a premium. Move your car at your peril, as you may never get it back in the same place again. Parking on our little dead-end street is in high demand for three reasons. For one there are about 30 households along a 100m stretch and the street is so narrow that one can only park on one side. This works out at a potential ……. Parking spaces (if everyone parks neatly – there are no lines to guide) ie not enough for more than one car per household. Many households will have two cars, and some unscrupulous people additionally try to park their work van/car here as well. So the place is clogged. For two, the parking is free, with no meters or residential permit restrictions, and there’s a bus stop right at the end of the street that can whizz workers into the city. Ergo any vacant spots will be swiftly moved in on by eager day-trippers. For three, we live within walking distance of a major sport stadium, so at weekends we fill up with team supporters.

Last year I was out so often taking middle son swimming that I had very little hope of finding a space, and lived with the fact that I’d drop him off and then hunt up and down the neighbourhood for a corner to squeeze into. This year has been much better: son now swims at the newly re-opened RCP and can get there and back by buses. The only time I move the car now is at 5am to get him to morning swimming and for my sanity walk up through the woods with the dogs. I’ve been happily popping out at 5am and back at 6.30am to my perfect parking spot right outside our house. It has become ‘our’ spot and I made the mistake of feeling smug.

Then, oh horror, I came back one morning to find the spot filled with a long silver saloon car. The realisation that it was one of those dratted ‘pre-book only’ taxis (which annoy me anyway, for reasons I haven’t yet fathomed – any suggestions gratefully received) made my blood boil – not even a resident! After this first shocking stealing of my place, it began to happen all the time, the driver having obviously sussed my routine.