I’m bringing this to your attention because of an unfortunate situation I encountered yesterday while walking to get coffee.
A large, luxury SUV—presumably in a hurry—had shoehorned itself—yes, with rear-assist parking enabled—into the last free parking spot off a suburban street well known in the area for its women’s wear outlets and Paris-style cafés.
The front end of the tractor overhung the front line by enough to issue a ticket—in my opinion. This wasn’t the issue, though. The rear of the tractor was so enamoured with the peasant car behind that it abutted as shit does to a blanket. Thus, leaving the peasant driver no way of leaving the scene, as the car to its rear was also as close to the front line as Mitchell Starc gets.
I stopped and offered a feeble, “That’s unfortunate,” and then went on to say, “They probably won’t be long by the look of the parking.” Note: “They”—avoiding gender bias, thank you.
Sure as shit sticks, the owner returned, holding a coffee tray and what looked like a bag of pastries. Unperturbed by the scene, the person moved at a pace that said they didn’t have an imminent nails appointment—that probably gives it away—fuck it, I’ll leave it in; it’s the whole point of the post. Not one word of apology or even a hint of embarrassment surfaced. Then she was gone—where to, who the fuck knows.
The good news: the peasant car and occupant were free to go to either her third job or volunteer duties at the local soup kitchen—which is on the other side of Latrobe Terrace.
This condition is called “Conspicuous Consumption.” I will write more about it.
And to the person in question: I have your rego number and car type.
Oh, and what was I doing on that side of Latrobe Terrace? Good question. Lost me fucking bearings!
Nick
