I am not inclined to road rage. Parking rage, I'll admit to but, then, you already know this because of earlier blogs. If a driver does dare to cross me (both literally and figuratively) in a public parking spot, my rage knows no bounds. I ... fume silently.
Outside The Warehouse, I drove into a marked park - uh, no, not quite right - and I backed out slightly and then drove forward again. Nope, not in the middle of the white lines yet... I backed out again. And in again, turning the steering wheel and concentrating like a Le Mans rally driver..
Ah.... perfect park!
I did my shopping, weaving in and out of shelves of Star Wars light sabers and robots, and folk frantically buying rolls of wrapping paper on a two-for-one special, and bored husbands lolling against packed trolleys.
Back to my car, laden down with Christmas goodies -
"Oh, noooo-"
My car was hemmed in. I couldn't open the driver's door. I had to slide into my car from the passenger's side, heft my not so light-weight thighs across the gear stick, and wiggle under the steering wheel.
Oh, I was so mad. I fantasised all the way home of dropping the bad parker into a vat of boiling oil.
Sorry, Santa, you have to take this guy off the nice list and transfer him over to the naughty one (if he ever was on the nice list in the first place) -
above: this is as far as I could get my door open and, no, I wasn't responsible for that mark on the other car's door. I am the light blue car.
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