Petronella Wyatt

No hiding place

The ongoing escapades of London's answer to Ally McBeal

I looked out of the window the other day and noticed that there was something funny looking about the car (a red Honda, if anyone is interested). The car is always parked overnight in the garage driveway, the entrance to which is strongly secured by a bolted green gate.

Nonetheless, there was something funny looking about the car. The fact was inescapable. You will probably have guessed that vandals had climbed over the gate and either slashed the tyres or scratched the sides. You have, in which case, guessed wrong. One side of the car had indeed been completely disfigured – but by the addition of a huge yellow carbuncle. In other words, it looked as though it had been clamped.

At first I thought I must be imagining things. Perhaps it was a mutant giant canary. But, no, it was definitely a clamp. I wondered if someone had played a practical joke, but the job was so professional that I was forced to discount this theory. This left only the police. Righteous anger rose in my bosom. With so many burglars and murderers running loose the police had found yet another way to waste taxpayers’ money – by clamping cars in people’s gardens.

This new ruse seemed particularly nefarious. Surely it was perfectly legal to park in one’s own driveway? Or had the police now decided that driveways were also out of bounds. This left fewer and fewer places where one could park. Soon we would all be having to park on our roofs.

I sprang into action and rang the car-clamping people in Marble Arch. A woman answered the telephone. She claimed to know nothing about it. She had heard neither of the car or its number plate. She went on to deny strenuously clamping cars in private gardens.

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