Standing Room

Sarah Standing

18 April 2009

It’s at trying times like these that my latent inner-bimbo gene struggles to reassert itself.

‘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.