Feeding ducks

My fingers ache. It is so unbelievably cold in North London. I’m told that most of Europe is sitting underneath the second highest high pressure system ever recorded, which, in winter time means stupidly cold, bone dry weather, which is exactly how I’d describe what’s been going on today. Not a cloud in the sky; throw in a bitter Easterly wind and you have a bad case of chilblains. It's so dry, I'm told, that we won't experience any frost tonight, except on the grass, which is weird but kind of wonderful. I love these temperatures. My internal thermostat is horribly broken, so it's rare for me to feel anything other than uncomfortable heat. It’s the curse of being an hairy man, I'm afraid, so being cold is actually fun; although I'm sure I won't be saying that when I'm old and have nothing but faded photographs.

Speaking of the elderly, there are two gorgons who live around the corner from us who give old people a bad name. They're suspicious. They peer out from behind net curtains, and they stand in darkened rooms watching the street, peering like perverts.

Their biggest crime, however, is to think they have the right to put a traffic cone on the parking space outside their house to prevent anyone but their visitors (of which they seem to have very few) parking there.

The thing about parking on the street in London is that residents pay a certain amount each year to park in any bay within a designated set of streets. The streets in Highgate can get quite busy and often the space outside this couple’s house (which is somewhat tucked away) is the only one without a car in it.  

We often find ourselves having to move the cone whilst the couple ruffle their curtains and look out at us as though we were hideous ruffians. Sometimes the woman gestures at us frantically to put the cone back and move our car. We pretend not to notice.

We left our car there for a week once and returned to find a note on the windscreen, which said "please make sure you don't leave your car in this space for such a long period of time again." Part of the deal of having a permit to park in our neighbourhood is that we can choose to leave our car in any space for as long as we like.

I should point out that the parking space nearest to our house is on a much busier road, and that if we tried to reserve it for ourselves in the manner described above, we'd have our knuckles very quickly and very firmly rapped by Harringey Council.

One day the woman came beetling out of her house to talk to us. "This space needs to be kept clear” she barked. “Ummm... Why?” we asked. “Because I have a disabled sister." "I’m sorry to hear that. Does she live here?" "No, but she visits very regularly." "Is this a designated disabled bay?" I asked, pretending to give a shit. "No, but we're the only house on the street which doesn't have its own private parking bay, which is not fair." (ah... now, I get it) “Well, I'm sure the lack of private parking was reflected in the price you paid for the house. Lovely to meet you." She sneered at me like a miserable crone. I swear she swallowed one of her teeth.

As it happens, of course, their putting the traffic cone on the space and having no friends means we get a space reserved just for us, being the only people who seem to know about these horrible people's game. Others simply assume it’s been reserved by the council. But if we're scratching their backs by not reporting them or setting fire to their blessed traffic cones they could at least ditch the "we're tragic elderly people who struggle to look after our disabled sister" act. You're rich. You're loathsome. You're not used to being told no. So get over yourselves, or buy a house with its own parking bay!
A short, sharp diary entry from Mr Pepys 350 years ago, which simply informed us that an Oxford man had delivered an “impertinent” sermon in church. “Cast your bread upon the waters.” Surely only when you’re feeding ducks?