The car park behind the aquarium was overflowing with buses. The council had cut the number of coach bays down to two. So the buses had taken over the car parking spaces as there was nowhere for them to park along the seafront at Whitley Bay, apart from a windy spot a long way out of town, near the crazy golf.
The drivers pretended to be relaxed, but were nervously looking around every few minutes to see if the parking wardens were coming. They had one hand on the key, ready to fire up the engine and race away at the first glimpse of them, whilst holding a cup of coffee in the other and and balancing the newspaper on the steering wheel.
The sad fact was that even if they did speed out of the car park, the wardens would only have needed to type the numberplate details into their hand held computers and a ticket will be sent out the very next morning.
"They're complete and utter b------s," said the experienced driver from Gateshead, who came to ask me for some change. It was hard to be sure whether his red face was due to warden rage or sunburn. The driver illegally parked on my other side had the same pointed features as Stuart Little. An over-sexed Stuart Little as he spent his time ogling the procession of obese women who returned to the car park. Most were bouncing out of their floral crop tops. Every so often he would emit a noise similar to that from a character in one of the Carry On films.
I left him to it and went for a walk along the seafront.
I didn't have a worry in the world. I had managed to grab my coach bay. It made it a relaxing day at the seaside while I waited four hours for a Playgroup's annual beach outing to return. the only decision was whether I wanted vinegar on my fish n'chips.
Life can be brutal - but not today.
No comments:
Post a Comment