Short Story Parking My Son The Troublemaker
Parking My Son The Troublemaker
by Angela Lansbury
Apathetic people of all ages, races and religions had united, from all over the borough, gathered together agitatedly to discuss parking. Neighbours who had not spoken parked alongside each other. People who had not been seen for twenty years appeared in battered cars. It was like a wedding, because Rolls Royces brought the elderly who had roused themselves from sickbeds, and worse, and sport cars had brought courting couples who had roused themselves from better, for a meeting about parking problems.
My unemployed recently graduated son with the spiky hair, represented youth. I, a grey-haired retired teacher, represented the feisty, cynical, older generation. Together we went to the grand new local civic centre which has wasted all our money and can be relied upon to use up surplus cash in repair bills. The building costs ran over budget and left us with mountings debts so now has to be funded by penalising unsuspecting motorists.
We arrived in good time to not get a seat. We were at the residents’ meeting with councillors, who we nickname the invisible men, discussing parking. But while we were inside with the invisible councillors, we did not see the invisible parking wardens sneaking up outside.
Perhaps the council had hoped to set one group against another. I explained to an Indian man who had just moved into the area: ‘The residents near the station want parking restrictions to drive away vehicles which prevent householders from parking outside their front doors.
‘So The Residents Association has produced a petition.’
He replied, ‘Commuters want to park because otherwise we cannot get to our work. I am sorry to have to tell you that we have a counter-petition.’
My son smiled, ‘As a member of the rationalist society, I feel that patrols to prevent theft from car parks plus a few more parking places would solve everybody’s problems. Unfortunately I had not rationalised that a one million signature petition would be necessary. But even if we had it, they won’t listen anyway.’
Award-winning chef, Mr Pierre, his little black beard waggling in indignation, told us, and the councillors: ‘Since the parking restrictions ’ave changed in the high street to no parking until after 8 pm, instead of no parking after 6.30, which it is in the rest of the borough, my restaurant business has dropped by ’alf, and ’alf is not a laugh.
‘I am on the verge of going out of business. So my restaurant and my deli will both close. While they are empty, you won’t be getting any rates.
‘I’m empty all day until after 8.30 pm, ’alf the evening being empty. Then customers I turn away go into the new Italian. But the new restaurant is unknown. There’s no passing trade because people can’t park. I ’ave leaflets about them in my restaurant. If I close down and that restaurant doesn’t get business from me, they will go under, too.
‘If you end up with three boarded-up shops in the ’igh street, you won’t look good for the mayor’s parade next week. And the visit from the prime minister. And the Queen.’
I shouted, ‘The council’s promotion of our high street as Restaurant Capital of North will look pretty silly with the boarded-up restaurants, won’t it!’
When it came to Any Other Business, I said, ‘Yes - my son’s car broke down, but it was given a parking ticket. He has a letter of support from the AA. My son got six tickets and was so distraught that he was threatening to commit suicide. What is the quality of life here? Nil. Are you happy with the council? My son’s not happy ...’
‘We’re running out of time. This subject is now closed,’ said the Mayor.
The councillors weren’t interested. They moved on to the parking restrictions they were imposing for the mayor’s parade and the Queen’s visit. They proposed to tow away cars and impose enormous fines.
After that the chair person ignored my hand waving. I’d spoken too much. They don’t like people who have a lot to say.
So I passed a note to the serious bespectacled Indian gentleman standing next to me. He read out my suggestions slowly: ‘Many more parking places could be provided. Instead of double yellow lines. And repainting lines in the car parks could create many more spaces. Good for big families needing more places. Isn’t it?’
But despite numerous cries of ‘hear, hear,’ the council merely smiled politely. They recorded, but ignored these sensible requests.
They would not listen. They let us speak. But they did not listen.
Tables at the back had bottles of beer and no bottle opened and tiny paper plates piled with spicy meat samosas, made by the council cook who’d made them too hot because she never ate such things.
The local newspaper photographer appeared. The Muslims and Jews don’t drink alcohol or, if they do, don’t want to be seen drinking it. The rest of us, who were all drivers, could not drink the alcohol and suspected it was a plot to fine us for drunken driving.
The spicy meat was too hot for old ladies like me. The Muslims would not eat it because it was not halal. The Jews would not eat it because it was not kosher. The Asians would not eat it because they were vegetarians.
What we all wanted was chocolate biscuits. The dieters wanted to see fruit. Not much would have been needed because dieters don’t want to eat fruit, just to see it whilst they eat chocolate biscuits.
When everybody went outside, everybody had parking tickets. People who had presented rival petitions were now united.
I and my son found we both had parking tickets. My son was hysterical. ‘I do my best, Mum. I went out job-hunting. I picked up one ticket while at an interview. Another when claiming benefits at the job centre. I can’t pay these!’
‘You need a job,’ I said.
We sat in my rusting, mouldy Volvo. He scanned through the local paper. ‘Mum, These jobs are offering only £5 an hour. It’ll take me days just to pay off the parking tickets, without anything for food, clothes and rent.’
He threw down the paper. I picked it up. What did I see? Box ad for a job which paid £40,000. It was an advertisement for a parking warden.
My son stared, ‘I don’t believe that’s the basic rate. Half of it, most of it, must be bonuses. No wonder they’re so keen to give out tickets!’
Next morning he woke up, refreshed.
He said, ‘I have to pay these parking tickets. They only way is to take a job giving me more money. I have no choice.’
‘Be careful,’ I warned, ‘People don’t like parking wardens. Motorist are likely to shout and swear. They might even try to run you over with their cars!’
‘I’ll be careful,’ he promised. ‘If I think there’s likely to be trouble, I’ll record it all on my mobile. Or I’ll call the local newspaper in advance to escort me. And take incriminating pictures.’
I felt bad. To have a son who is a tax collector or a parking warden is not good in our community. I’d be more unpopular than the Smiths whose son committed a murder.
The Smiths’ son killed a parking warden.
I tried to see the funny side of it. I had loads of newspaper clippings about absurd things which parking wardens had done. I got out my cuttings. We both had a good laugh.
His training lasted a week. He was out for his first day on the day of the Mayor’s procession.
The local paper had run a story advising the residents not to park - because parking wardens and clampers would be lurking about.
‘Be careful!’ I warned my son.
‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ he grinned. ‘The clampers are a nasty lot. I knew them from school. A horrid gang of thugs they are, too. But for once they’re on my side. If I call them on my mobile and tell them which cars they can clamp, I’ll be in their good books.’
I didn’t watch the news. I just stood in the kitchen washing up. But I heard on the radio that there had been a huge commotion. The mayor’s procession was a disaster.
The next day I saw the pictures in the newspaper. My son had called the papers.
My son had given out plenty of tickets. The tractor from the local museum had a ticket.
Before the queen could admire it, the non-functioning tractor got towed away.
The bus received a ticket. After the passengers got off at the terminal near the station, as usual the bus stayed at the stop in the turning circle. The clampers came out and clamped the bus.
A stand-by ambulance had a ticket. The police car also had a ticket. And it was clamped.
He had ticketed all the council officials’ cars.
Then he called the clampers. They clamped the cars - with patient chauffeurs sitting in them!
Then he called the newspapers to photograph impatient council officials swearing.
He did the same with the mayor’s car. On TV the six o’clock news showed the mayor swearing with all his swear words replaced by bleeps.
The ten o’clock news showed the mayor swearing with all his swear words satisfyingly audible. So that they could be repeated in the papers next day.
And the final indignity. The queen’s own vehicle was towed away. When H M the Queen came back she could see her car suspended in mid-air at a diagonal angle. The chauffeur, stuck overhead, was anxiously clutching his hat to be sure it didn’t fall off. And the corgis in the back were yelping.
For once H M The Queen was lost for words. Or rather the reporter was lost for substitute words. The Queen’s mouth opened and shut, but it was not reported what she said.
The mayor came up and spoke to her. When they turned back, the tow-truck was already speeding off down the road.
Three broad-shouldered men told the Mayor, ‘We don’t care ooze car it is. She ’as to go down the park with ’er documents to show its ’er car and give up six ’undred pound or she don’t get it back an’ we charge ’er every ’our it’s left!’
The mayor gasped, ‘The Queen doesn’t carry money. You stupid people.’ Or words to that effect.
Of course my son was only doing his job. As instructed by the council.
Later, when the council conceded that they did have control over the sub-contracted clampers, and the queen’s ticket should be withdrawn, he made it conditional on his six parking tickets being withdrawn.
No, my son isn’t a parking warden any longer. He only lasted a day. But it was a good day.
He’s now working for a firm of lawyers. Parking tickets, no problem. He’ll take them to the European court of human wrongs.
Please don’t tell anybody it was my son causing trouble.
-ends-
1680 words approx.
copyright Angela Lansbury 2007
For permission to publish contact:
Angelalansbury@hotmail.com
by Angela Lansbury
Apathetic people of all ages, races and religions had united, from all over the borough, gathered together agitatedly to discuss parking. Neighbours who had not spoken parked alongside each other. People who had not been seen for twenty years appeared in battered cars. It was like a wedding, because Rolls Royces brought the elderly who had roused themselves from sickbeds, and worse, and sport cars had brought courting couples who had roused themselves from better, for a meeting about parking problems.
My unemployed recently graduated son with the spiky hair, represented youth. I, a grey-haired retired teacher, represented the feisty, cynical, older generation. Together we went to the grand new local civic centre which has wasted all our money and can be relied upon to use up surplus cash in repair bills. The building costs ran over budget and left us with mountings debts so now has to be funded by penalising unsuspecting motorists.
We arrived in good time to not get a seat. We were at the residents’ meeting with councillors, who we nickname the invisible men, discussing parking. But while we were inside with the invisible councillors, we did not see the invisible parking wardens sneaking up outside.
Perhaps the council had hoped to set one group against another. I explained to an Indian man who had just moved into the area: ‘The residents near the station want parking restrictions to drive away vehicles which prevent householders from parking outside their front doors.
‘So The Residents Association has produced a petition.’
He replied, ‘Commuters want to park because otherwise we cannot get to our work. I am sorry to have to tell you that we have a counter-petition.’
My son smiled, ‘As a member of the rationalist society, I feel that patrols to prevent theft from car parks plus a few more parking places would solve everybody’s problems. Unfortunately I had not rationalised that a one million signature petition would be necessary. But even if we had it, they won’t listen anyway.’
Award-winning chef, Mr Pierre, his little black beard waggling in indignation, told us, and the councillors: ‘Since the parking restrictions ’ave changed in the high street to no parking until after 8 pm, instead of no parking after 6.30, which it is in the rest of the borough, my restaurant business has dropped by ’alf, and ’alf is not a laugh.
‘I am on the verge of going out of business. So my restaurant and my deli will both close. While they are empty, you won’t be getting any rates.
‘I’m empty all day until after 8.30 pm, ’alf the evening being empty. Then customers I turn away go into the new Italian. But the new restaurant is unknown. There’s no passing trade because people can’t park. I ’ave leaflets about them in my restaurant. If I close down and that restaurant doesn’t get business from me, they will go under, too.
‘If you end up with three boarded-up shops in the ’igh street, you won’t look good for the mayor’s parade next week. And the visit from the prime minister. And the Queen.’
I shouted, ‘The council’s promotion of our high street as Restaurant Capital of North will look pretty silly with the boarded-up restaurants, won’t it!’
When it came to Any Other Business, I said, ‘Yes - my son’s car broke down, but it was given a parking ticket. He has a letter of support from the AA. My son got six tickets and was so distraught that he was threatening to commit suicide. What is the quality of life here? Nil. Are you happy with the council? My son’s not happy ...’
‘We’re running out of time. This subject is now closed,’ said the Mayor.
The councillors weren’t interested. They moved on to the parking restrictions they were imposing for the mayor’s parade and the Queen’s visit. They proposed to tow away cars and impose enormous fines.
After that the chair person ignored my hand waving. I’d spoken too much. They don’t like people who have a lot to say.
So I passed a note to the serious bespectacled Indian gentleman standing next to me. He read out my suggestions slowly: ‘Many more parking places could be provided. Instead of double yellow lines. And repainting lines in the car parks could create many more spaces. Good for big families needing more places. Isn’t it?’
But despite numerous cries of ‘hear, hear,’ the council merely smiled politely. They recorded, but ignored these sensible requests.
They would not listen. They let us speak. But they did not listen.
Tables at the back had bottles of beer and no bottle opened and tiny paper plates piled with spicy meat samosas, made by the council cook who’d made them too hot because she never ate such things.
The local newspaper photographer appeared. The Muslims and Jews don’t drink alcohol or, if they do, don’t want to be seen drinking it. The rest of us, who were all drivers, could not drink the alcohol and suspected it was a plot to fine us for drunken driving.
The spicy meat was too hot for old ladies like me. The Muslims would not eat it because it was not halal. The Jews would not eat it because it was not kosher. The Asians would not eat it because they were vegetarians.
What we all wanted was chocolate biscuits. The dieters wanted to see fruit. Not much would have been needed because dieters don’t want to eat fruit, just to see it whilst they eat chocolate biscuits.
When everybody went outside, everybody had parking tickets. People who had presented rival petitions were now united.
I and my son found we both had parking tickets. My son was hysterical. ‘I do my best, Mum. I went out job-hunting. I picked up one ticket while at an interview. Another when claiming benefits at the job centre. I can’t pay these!’
‘You need a job,’ I said.
We sat in my rusting, mouldy Volvo. He scanned through the local paper. ‘Mum, These jobs are offering only £5 an hour. It’ll take me days just to pay off the parking tickets, without anything for food, clothes and rent.’
He threw down the paper. I picked it up. What did I see? Box ad for a job which paid £40,000. It was an advertisement for a parking warden.
My son stared, ‘I don’t believe that’s the basic rate. Half of it, most of it, must be bonuses. No wonder they’re so keen to give out tickets!’
Next morning he woke up, refreshed.
He said, ‘I have to pay these parking tickets. They only way is to take a job giving me more money. I have no choice.’
‘Be careful,’ I warned, ‘People don’t like parking wardens. Motorist are likely to shout and swear. They might even try to run you over with their cars!’
‘I’ll be careful,’ he promised. ‘If I think there’s likely to be trouble, I’ll record it all on my mobile. Or I’ll call the local newspaper in advance to escort me. And take incriminating pictures.’
I felt bad. To have a son who is a tax collector or a parking warden is not good in our community. I’d be more unpopular than the Smiths whose son committed a murder.
The Smiths’ son killed a parking warden.
I tried to see the funny side of it. I had loads of newspaper clippings about absurd things which parking wardens had done. I got out my cuttings. We both had a good laugh.
His training lasted a week. He was out for his first day on the day of the Mayor’s procession.
The local paper had run a story advising the residents not to park - because parking wardens and clampers would be lurking about.
‘Be careful!’ I warned my son.
‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ he grinned. ‘The clampers are a nasty lot. I knew them from school. A horrid gang of thugs they are, too. But for once they’re on my side. If I call them on my mobile and tell them which cars they can clamp, I’ll be in their good books.’
I didn’t watch the news. I just stood in the kitchen washing up. But I heard on the radio that there had been a huge commotion. The mayor’s procession was a disaster.
The next day I saw the pictures in the newspaper. My son had called the papers.
My son had given out plenty of tickets. The tractor from the local museum had a ticket.
Before the queen could admire it, the non-functioning tractor got towed away.
The bus received a ticket. After the passengers got off at the terminal near the station, as usual the bus stayed at the stop in the turning circle. The clampers came out and clamped the bus.
A stand-by ambulance had a ticket. The police car also had a ticket. And it was clamped.
He had ticketed all the council officials’ cars.
Then he called the clampers. They clamped the cars - with patient chauffeurs sitting in them!
Then he called the newspapers to photograph impatient council officials swearing.
He did the same with the mayor’s car. On TV the six o’clock news showed the mayor swearing with all his swear words replaced by bleeps.
The ten o’clock news showed the mayor swearing with all his swear words satisfyingly audible. So that they could be repeated in the papers next day.
And the final indignity. The queen’s own vehicle was towed away. When H M the Queen came back she could see her car suspended in mid-air at a diagonal angle. The chauffeur, stuck overhead, was anxiously clutching his hat to be sure it didn’t fall off. And the corgis in the back were yelping.
For once H M The Queen was lost for words. Or rather the reporter was lost for substitute words. The Queen’s mouth opened and shut, but it was not reported what she said.
The mayor came up and spoke to her. When they turned back, the tow-truck was already speeding off down the road.
Three broad-shouldered men told the Mayor, ‘We don’t care ooze car it is. She ’as to go down the park with ’er documents to show its ’er car and give up six ’undred pound or she don’t get it back an’ we charge ’er every ’our it’s left!’
The mayor gasped, ‘The Queen doesn’t carry money. You stupid people.’ Or words to that effect.
Of course my son was only doing his job. As instructed by the council.
Later, when the council conceded that they did have control over the sub-contracted clampers, and the queen’s ticket should be withdrawn, he made it conditional on his six parking tickets being withdrawn.
No, my son isn’t a parking warden any longer. He only lasted a day. But it was a good day.
He’s now working for a firm of lawyers. Parking tickets, no problem. He’ll take them to the European court of human wrongs.
Please don’t tell anybody it was my son causing trouble.
-ends-
1680 words approx.
copyright Angela Lansbury 2007
For permission to publish contact:
Angelalansbury@hotmail.com
Labels: clamping, corgis, council, HM The Queen, parking tickets, parking wardens, short story
posted by Angela Lansbury Author at 1:20 PM
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