Being lazy, I decided to drive into town this morning to do my food shopping. Yes, I know, environment, etc. We’re doomed either way.
Lion Yard Grand Arcade car park proudly announced “spaces” and I duly hunted for one therein. There were none. Oh, not strictly true: there were in fact about a hundred spaces, all nice and cosy in taped-off areas. Every exposed section in the car park was closed due to icy conditions underfoot.
But nobody told the ticket machines.
So people were driving up to the top, and driving back down again. And up again. And down again. And over the days, months and years we started to form communities and talk to each other over radios and circle endlessly, endlessly, looking for a space, until a man in a strange blue box turned up and–
Oh, hang on. No, I seem to have got mixed up with a Doctor Who story.
What actually happened was that, on the way down, a sensible man just ahead of me got out of his car, ripped the tape, and drove into one of the forbidden zones. The revolution had begun! I followed, parked, and exchanged mutual tsks and health-and-safety-gone-mads with a lady in the car next to mine.
IT WAS THE SPIRIT OF THE BLITZ I TELL YOU, LIVING AND BREATHING HERE IN 2009.
I then walked towards the lift and slipped on a patch of ice.
No, I didn’t. I nearly did. BUT ANYWAY, BLITZ ETC.
When I returned to my car later the entire section had been colonised by rebel parkers. But we were the first, the pioneers, the trailblazers. Years from now they will worship our names, or more probably our number plates gleaned from CCTV. It will be our faces on student posters, on knock-off nigel t-shirts, none of this Che Guevara nonsense.
Where were you in the great winter of ’09, they’ll ask. Where were you when the revolution started? In the Peugeot two cars back, I’ll say, and they’ll look on with awe and then say christ you’re old and move on.