Nice peaceful Sunday – Well it was
I am sitting at my desk, gently steaming. Two reasons; firstly there is a nationwide problem with our powers as Parking Enforcement Officers. I’m not going to tell you what it is, but the legislators who drafted the decriminalisation legislation forgot to include a particular restriction in the 1991 act under which we are empowered. What this means is that any ticket issued by local authority Parking Enforcement Officer on this particular type of restriction will be invalid. Only a Police Officer or old style Traffic Warden can issue a valid Parking Ticket on this specific type of restriction. Such was the news I was handed when I returned to base late this afternoon. Well, great.
Up until then I was a pretty relaxed fellow. I’d managed to spend fifteen minutes quiet contemplation in the Garden of Remembrance with a couple of like minded colleagues. Turned out all three of us had the same idea, so we snuck in caps off, and quietly read the names on the memorial and wreaths after all the British Legion members had paraded off to Church. Unlike my last visit, no one bothered us while we paid our respects.
The other cause for discombobulation is my two stepdaughters. The real reason is estranged Daddy, who spoils them with expensive gifts (Holidays, clothes, the whole nine yards) every time he breezes into view in order to assuage what Mrs Sticker calls ‘his guilt’ for not taking a bigger role in their upbringing. They have got used to a Father who cannot say ‘No’ to their every whim. What this gives me is two stepkids who fly into a hissy fit every time I or Mrs Sticker refuse their demands (“Why can’t we have SKY?”, “I want a new mobile phone and you pay the £80 a month bill”, “I wanna Napster account on your credit card!” sort of thing.). One tries to redress the balance by standing firm, but sometimes you just want to go home and let your mental armour down, but the emotional violence cuts loose and you can’t help but get hit by the shrapnel. Now it’s got to a point where the gift demanded is so large (Brand new car), that even Daddy’s wallet is creaking under the pressure. He is going to have to say ‘No’ to them but doesn’t know how, and is wondering how to make it look like I or Mrs Sticker are to blame. I’d say this could be fun to watch, but as I’m the first poor sod in the firing line it certainly won’t be.
The major issue here is that if I intervene I am in the wrong no matter which way I turn, and if I don’t do anything the shit still hits my rotating cooling device. My current state of armed neutrality is wearing a bit thin.
It’s so much easier out on the streets. At least there I have the privilege of maintaining my ‘professional’ persona. Maybe I should just pack my bags and run like the sensible coward I am. Take the Wife and dog leaving no forwarding address.
Up until then I was a pretty relaxed fellow. I’d managed to spend fifteen minutes quiet contemplation in the Garden of Remembrance with a couple of like minded colleagues. Turned out all three of us had the same idea, so we snuck in caps off, and quietly read the names on the memorial and wreaths after all the British Legion members had paraded off to Church. Unlike my last visit, no one bothered us while we paid our respects.
The other cause for discombobulation is my two stepdaughters. The real reason is estranged Daddy, who spoils them with expensive gifts (Holidays, clothes, the whole nine yards) every time he breezes into view in order to assuage what Mrs Sticker calls ‘his guilt’ for not taking a bigger role in their upbringing. They have got used to a Father who cannot say ‘No’ to their every whim. What this gives me is two stepkids who fly into a hissy fit every time I or Mrs Sticker refuse their demands (“Why can’t we have SKY?”, “I want a new mobile phone and you pay the £80 a month bill”, “I wanna Napster account on your credit card!” sort of thing.). One tries to redress the balance by standing firm, but sometimes you just want to go home and let your mental armour down, but the emotional violence cuts loose and you can’t help but get hit by the shrapnel. Now it’s got to a point where the gift demanded is so large (Brand new car), that even Daddy’s wallet is creaking under the pressure. He is going to have to say ‘No’ to them but doesn’t know how, and is wondering how to make it look like I or Mrs Sticker are to blame. I’d say this could be fun to watch, but as I’m the first poor sod in the firing line it certainly won’t be.
The major issue here is that if I intervene I am in the wrong no matter which way I turn, and if I don’t do anything the shit still hits my rotating cooling device. My current state of armed neutrality is wearing a bit thin.
It’s so much easier out on the streets. At least there I have the privilege of maintaining my ‘professional’ persona. Maybe I should just pack my bags and run like the sensible coward I am. Take the Wife and dog leaving no forwarding address.
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