Next?

This was the day when the gales blew themselves out. Fences wavered. Trash bins clattered about the yard. Several small potted plants blew over. Nothing to be done about the fences at this stage but the rest of the windblown refugees needed rescue.

We took it in turns to dive out into the storm on our rescue missions. Graham collected the bins and secured the plants. I secured the bins and was fortunate enough to time my adventure between showers. The wind, in short small doses, was invigorating. Not cold, or no more cold than any winter wind, but forceful and determined. I felt a little like a well-tattered wind-sock when I’d finished. Enjoyed it, though. No damage to our fences but I fear that my neighbour will lose his if he doesn’t take some remedial action before the next storm.

I was fortunate with the timing of my trip down to the supermarket for provisions, too. Wind, yes. Rain, no. I didn’t get a single dampening all day, come to think of it.

I enjoyed the wind even though I know I can’t take much of a strong wind before I begin to find it difficult to breath. The dash from the car into the supermarket was fun, and I arrived feeling much freshened and ready to tackle anything. I made a good shop, saving almost twelve pounds against standard prices on my basket load, and I ventured back out into the storm with brave heart and a sturdy step.

That was when the black cloud settled down over me like a shroud from Mordor. In my haste to get from the car to the supermarket entrance I’d forgotten to display my disabled driver’s badge and there, tucked under the windscreen wiper blade, was a little plastic envelope with a thirty quid charge notice in it. For a few minutes the air in that part of the car park turned distinctly blue. The car park attendant had done his usual disappearing act or I very much fear he’d have caught some of it. I don’t know how many times I’ve bidden him a good day when standing by my car in the disabled parking lot. I shall not do so again.

Now, I know that it’s a good thing. People who use disabled parking spaces without being entitled to do so deserve all the penalties they get. But me? Well, yes. I’d failed to display my badge. Even so, it does feel a little vindictive and I do feel a little victimised.

Hey ho. I shall pay it meekly, fill out and mail off the ‘written appeal’ even though I know it’ll get me nowhere, and do my best to forget the whole affair after tomorrow when I shall seek a calm verbal with the manager of the store. This is a heavy-handed approach to control and Sainsbury’s really do not need their cut of my thirty quid to add to their profits.

Just for today I don’t feel very happy with Sainsbury’s. I know it was entirely my own fault, and I shall be awfully careful about it in future but it’s a nasty way to punish an absent-minded old duffer for a moment’s forgetfulness. So, wait for it, one last boil of the rant-saucepan: Damn Sainsbury’s. Damn their eyes. May they rest uneasy in their profit-lined beds. And damn those who think a penalty-controlled society is a good thing.

There you go. Rant over and, like the gales, quite blown out. Next?