After this past week I am totally convinced that some rabble-rousing deity-slash-imp type thing is having a laugh at my expense by planting tricky weirdos in my path to test my mettle. Dear Lord, let there be a blinking book deal from this blog to make it all worthwhile. I just don’t think it’s normal for one person to have run-ins with so many wackos. Bloody hell, I’m sorry if I was an idiot in a former life but when does the Karmic debt end?
True, someone must be looking out for me to some degree because I haven’t bumped into Wheelchair-Boy (see post of 11/12/10 - if leggings could talk) in months. Lucky me. I did drive past him in town a little while back. He was in hot pursuit (whirr, whirr) of a woman wearing those wet-look black leggings. That’ll teach her.
My eldest niece, her Swedish fiancé, his sister (also Swedish) and his cousin (yes, also Swedish) were in town this week. If there is one group of people I think Capetonians should kowtow to, it’s tourists. Most people would agree that it’s within our fiscal interests to ensure a fun-filled, smooth-sailing holiday experience for visitors to our country.
Being nice to tourists is elementary. Be polite. Be obliging. Smile. Be pleasant. Smile again. Be polite. Be obliging etc. Truly, even a toddler could nail it. Unfortunately for me I live near (near, you hear me, not IN) a town I’ve dubbed “Complaintsville”. (I had to stop calling it Deliveranceville because not every one can hear the banjos).
The Friendly Swede’s holiday rental was on one of those roads where some residents don’t have their own parking spaces, so they have to park on the street. Not that unusual for cities anywhere in the world, right? You simply find the nearest parking to where you’re staying without parking in front of anyone’s driveway and you’re good to go. Not in Complaintsville.
Someone had parked in front of their house, so Friendly Family and Friendly Swedes found parking elsewhere. Lucky for them it was under a nice little pine tree that offered some shade. When they came down to their car later in the day, they were parked-in on either side, with literally 1cm to spare. The note on their windshield read, “call me when you want to move your car” (serial-killer type handwriting).
When the writer of the note (lets call him DIPPY – acronym for Dickheaded-Ignoramus-Petty-Pathetic-Y-front-wearer) came down to meet us, his opening line was, “I haven’t slashed your tyres, but…”. He then launched into a bitter tirade against people who make a beeline for his tree.
We were all standing around looking bewildered (especially the Swedes, who’d had no coaching on how to handle parking-space wankers) so I asked DIPPY, (merely to clarify) who owned the double garages directly behind his car? ‘I do’, DIPPY says. Mystified, I asked him why he needed the space under the tree when he has garages? Becaaause, DIPPY wants to park directly in front of his house to bring his groceries up. If DIPPY parked in his own double garage he’d be required to walk a whole extra 4 paces. Duh! DIPPY wants his garage space, the space in front of his garage, the tree to the left of the garages and the road in front of the tree. The PUBLIC ROAD in front of the tree. HuuuHHH??? I thought of offering him cake at this point.
Mortified by his rudeness to the out of towners, I explained (patiently) that he does not own the curb and that (less patiently) he does not own the tree and how (really impatient now) he definitely does not own the fucking road in front of the tree. Indignant, DIPPY asked me if I watered and pruned the tree. I had to concede that I didn’t, but added that I’m sure Council would be overjoyed to learn that he’d assumed responsibility for the welfare of the pine, but that sadly, he still DOESN’T OWN THE BLOODY TREE or the BLOODY ROAD in front of it.
I suggested that if he really felt that he owned the tree, curb and road, he should put up a sign. Something like CURB, TREE AND ROAD BELONGS TO ME NOT YOU, or PARK HERE IF YOU DARE or even MY TREE might do the trick.
DIPPY finally moved his car when I told him in my best Judge Judy type voice that what he had done was illegal (mmm, will actually have to double-check that) and that I was going to get the Traffic Authorities post-haste to tow his car away.
In closing, DIPPY must be a very special kind of stupid. Who parks-in a big SUV with a tow bar and a bullbar? Had we been tyre slashing, rebel kind of folk, we might have just revved up the ol’ SUV’s engine and muscled our way out of there. Looking back, I wish we’d had the guts to.
(BTW, GAG was in class again today. During the floor exercises she shouted out CHANGE THE MUSIC, ITS MAKING ME ANXIOUS. And, a violent scuffle broke out in the back row over who gets to put their mat where. Suggestions on how to deal with belligerent adults are welcome.)