I WAS counting to 10 and breathing in and out slowly and deeply.
I am not an angry person and I do not get wound up very easily.
I think it was the way that he was grinning at me that I found annoying. That and calling me sir at the end of each explanation.
“So you see sir,” he explained for the umpteenth time, “you are illegally parked.”
What is it with me and traffic wardens?
Are they just out to get me or am I being paranoid?
I have had a dozen tickets issued against me in the past 10 years and successfully contested seven.
I have had a ticket for parking on a street with no lines because the yellow lines had been covered with a fresh layer of tarmac.
I was given a ticket for having the bumper of my car outside of the white box. I have been given a ticket because the traffic warden didn’t believe my note that both pay meters were broken. I successfully had all of those overturned.
This one was stupid even by those standards. “Look,” says I, “my ticket is valid for two hours and still has 45 minutes until it expires.”
He nodded at my lovely ticket, clearly visible through the shiny window. Beside it the tax disc proudly announced that it was in date. I looked at the floor and I was well inside of the box. The cars either side of me also had tickets on. He had clearly been very busy.
“Ah, but you see sir,” he said “you are displaying two tickets.”
The smug, contented look on his face was like looking at a baby freshly fed, snuggled up in its mother’s arms. I looked through the window baffled. I couldn’t see what he was talking about.
He tut-tutted and beckoned me over with a pointed finger. It was like being a small child again as he mouthed “Come here” at me.
I stood my ground and pointed at the ticket again. In my hand I held the parking ticket that he had issued and stuck to my windscreen. I wondered how his day had ended up like this. Had he received bad news? Was he in a bad mood?
I looked at him in his shiny hat and jacket and wondered how cold he must be on a warm spring morning to have to wear so much clothing.
Perhaps he was overheated and this was preventing him from thinking clearly.
He wasn’t going to budge, and so I followed his gaze. And there it was sticking out of the dashboard.
If you leant at an angle you could make out the second ticket.
“Now, which one should I acknowledge?” says he. I looked at the valid one, issued by the machine 20 feet away.
“Well I guess if you have a magnifying glass and you kind of lie on your belly,” says I, full of sarcasm, “you might see that one was issued in Manchester six months ago.”
I felt my nose scrunch up as I desperately tried to hide the contempt I felt.
He nodded again. “Two tickets and so you are contravening the rules.” His smug grin spread across his huge fat face.
“Surely common sense mate,” I tried to say, but he interrupted with the lines that every official in the country falls back on. “I don’t make the rules sir.”
I got the feeling that if he were to make the rules there would be a few changes. We would have hanging for parking on yellow lines, a firing squad for double yellows and, of course, the electric chair for red routes.
I could see that I would get nowhere with him and wished him a pleasant day.
He thanked me and, as I went to get into the car, decided to tell me that I could challenge it and probably not have to pay!
Was I meant to be grateful? What was the point of issuing the thing in the first place?
As I drove off I couldn’t help but wonder why it’s so hard for people to take a step back in their jobs.
Is there any reason why bus drivers can’t wait a few seconds extra if they see someone running toward the bus as it pulls away?
Does it matter if your liquid is a few millilitres over the limit at the security check-in?
If you are a brain surgeon I can understand the need to follow the rules, but if you are an official aren’t you just getting off on the power of your job?
Oh well, it isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last time I will meet a jobsworth. There will be another one along soon enough.