life in the fast lane

Park and Ride As a stay at home mother (I have radiotherapy instead of going to gym or a coffee morning) for the next few weeks I have to take my four-year-old son’s afternoon activities seriously. Why I am not sure. So on Tuesday I headed for the gymnastics class. My husband had pretty much taken over the ferrying to and from extracurricular activities but I felt I should do my bit now. So off we went in the car. However, little did I know that since the end of last term the university where he has his classes has changed its parking system? I arrived and looked for my usual spot only to find that the car park had been cut in half to make way for a bus stop. The remaining places were of course full and the same went for the next car park. I asked a friendly bus assistant sort of person where I could park and he waved me in the other direction. I drove on to be told that teachers only could park in the next car park. “But I am a teacher,” I whinged. “Here in the university?” “Er no,” “Move along then,” came the stern reply. I drove around for a further 10 minutes and then just drove home. They don’t let them into the class ten minutes late. It seems that the park bit of the park and ride system has been overlooked. Not so says my husband so he met us near the class on Thursday. We got to the first car park and they wouldn’t let us in. Finally we did find a car park and then we had to wait for the bus. It was OK and although we were 10 minutes late the teacher let Harry in rather than face upsetting his bald, foreign mother. My husband assures me that we will be able to cut the time down once we know exactly where to park. On the way home the traffic was manic. At the turn off to one of the main roads everything was completely at a standstill. We crawled along and I wondered where the traffic police are when they are needed. Further along the road we came upon the police blocking two lanes of the three-lane thoroughfare for no apparent reason. I beat my brow and slammed my tiny fists against the steering wheel. “Bloody typical, bloody country…” When we got home I asked my son if he had seen the policemen when he was in the car with his dad. He said that he had. “What did papa say when he saw the police holding up the traffic?” “What’s all this then?” was the answer. Now if anger and losing ones rag is the cause of some cancers it is obvious why I have it and my husband doesn’t.