Therefore I would like to say sorry to all you regular readers of my hyperactive drivellings on Bloggers behalf. I really don’t know what’s got into them of late.
Notwithstanding; the general dyslexic (Just to remind you this is my literary shorthand for people who can’t, or more like won’t read what is blindingly obvious, not a reference to the genuine condition of Dyslexia) has been giving me grief from the moment I began today. Nothing aggressive, just constant whining because they have to park properly. At least while I’m around doing my thing to train the next generation of sprinters. If they made an Olympic event of the one minute whinge or the twenty metre sprint to your car – I’m sure Britain would lead the world.
I mean come on people. Would it hurt some of you to walk to and from the cashpoint? Don’t bullshit me about getting mugged as certain people often do. The exchange usually starts like this on a double yellow ‘no loading’ restriction where even a Disabled blue badge is no protection from my predations. I turn up and cock a sardonic eyebrow at the driver. He winds down his window and the whining (His, not mine) begins.
“I’m just waiting for my friend…”
“Yes sir, but you are not allowed to even stop here.”
“He’s only in the Bank.”
“Do you want me to book you?”
“I’ll only be a minute.” Get him to move on Bill; traffic is starting to back up.
“Too long sir, this is a no loading restriction.” I get out my hand held and start punching in his registration and details.
“It’ll be your fault if he’s mugged, you bastard!” Is sometimes the drivers parting shot as he zooms off. Well it wouldn’t hurt if you parked up legally and kept him company if you were that concerned, you idle bozo. Then your friend would stand less chance of getting mugged in the first place. All this in the area of town most covered by CCTV and less than a twenty second sprint from the Police Station; with a uniformed presence already on hand as well, even if it is only snotty Council jobsworth me. This from certain people I have recognised on a night out flashing solid thousand pound wedges of cash in their pocket in some very iffy hostelries indeed (So I have low tastes when the wife lets me off the leash, so what?)
Going back a few years I recall walking well over a quarter mile from where I worked to the bank, escorting my boss with the days takings of several thousand pounds cash in my hot sweaty little palms. This was in the late 1970’s with no CCTV and few Police foot patrols. Never got mugged or felt even slightly threatened. Personally I think all ‘cashpoint cripples’ are a bunch of idle wussies; but then that’s only my opinion.
For that I make no apology.