I have an American friend who is trying to come to terms with living in the UK, with all its quaintness and charm. After a number of years of connecting with local families he can now cope with the differences in language and the speed, and spelling, of our ‘humor’. There is one thing, however, that bemuses him and turns him into a nervous wreck, mumbling under his breath whilst checking the internet for flights back home. Car Parks! He just cannot understand why there is so little room between each space. 'How do you park in them?' he will often ask and to be honest I don’t have a complete answer.
I suppose, in truth, lack of space is something we get used to from birth. We are an island nation and, as such, are practically standing shoulder to shoulder, or should that be bumper to bumper. Anyway! He does have a point, after trying to decide who to vote for in the ‘X Factor’ parking is probably one of the most stressful pastimes that we have.
You drive in to the already heaving area outside the supermarket and immediately switch into fighter pilot mode, eyes scanning each lane for either a space or any sign of movement that might indicate someone has had enough and is about to go. More experienced parkers recognise the true signs and look for brake or reversing lights to switch on, or perhaps that short puff of carbon monoxide telling you a car engine has just been ignited. If all this fails you have only two options left.
Firstly, you can pick a lane and sit, holding your ground whilst fending off other would be shoppers, giving them a stern 'I am about to park next, thank you very much' expression. Marking out your territory you position yourself about half way down the section and put your indicator on so as to encourage other drivers to ‘just keep on moving’.
Secondly, you could spy a shopper coming out of the supermarket, heavy laden with bags, and follow them around the car park until they arrive at their vehicle. Then you park across their vehicle so others are made aware of your intentions. This method does have the danger of making you look like a would-be stalker so don’t be surprised if security arrive and start speaking loudly into their radios.
Experience will show you that it is very rarely fruitful to follow a solo guy on his way out of the shop. He will be most likely popping back to the car to either put some bags in the boot or escaping to take a crafty moment to listen to the football on the radio whilst his wife is trying on shrunken jeans in the changing rooms. Either way you will follow him to certain disappointment as he mimes to you 'I AM NOT GOING YET' whilst waving his arms in an attempt at helping his communications.
Parking is also a problem because my wife is always severely disappointed in my choice of space. After driving round for what seems like an eternity she declares 'You just missed one', a comment that is designed to make me stop and try to reverse into shopping trolleys. When we eventually find a space she is joined in her disquiet by our daughters asking why I couldn’t find one nearer to the shops.
My favorite parking episode, however, concerns the day that, to my amazement, we arrived early to a large shopping complex to find the car park practically empty. Not being accustomed to finding ourselves in this position we reverted to type and drove around a couple of times before I decided on a suitable place to rest our vehicle. My wife couldn’t resist a final word as she said 'You passed a better place just over there.'
My America friend assures me that although car parks are different across the pond, wives are exactly the same.
Parking
The List
I approach most of my days off with a mixture of joy and apprehension. Joy at the thought of not having to rise at 6am. Apprehension at the thought of my wife mentioning 'THE LIST'. Immediately all husbands/male partners will come out in a cold sweat and want to lift the newspaper to cover their eyes so as not to catch the gaze of their beloved spouse. My 'List' includes a variety of jobs that need doing around the house. Now you need to understand how my good lady works when it comes to such requirements. She doesn’t actually say that I have to do them; she just raises the issue in passing and leaves the subject hanging in the ether. 'The porch light isn’t working' or 'The garage is getting cluttered'. Faced with such statements of fact I have the option to nod in agreement and do nothing about it; in theory at least. In practice the very fact that the words have been spoken is enough to place the burden firmly on my shoulders. My track record is not good when it comes to dealing with the list. I might well respond by visiting the garage and, after switching the radio on, move boxes around in an attempt to 'tidy' the space. In truth I spend more time getting the radio tuned into the correct station and examining the contents of my special box of oddments. All men have them and they are always a source of joy. They are the male equivalent of the large jar of buttons that that my mother kept in her sowing cupboard. This all seems a world a way now and a couple of things strike me as nostalgically amusing. First the idea of having a whole cupboard dedicated to ‘sowing’ and secondly, the thought of actually saving buttons. I can’t imagine that either of these too oddities would be part of modern life. I suppose that the main difference between my mother’s collection jar and my own over filled container is one of purpose. She actually did get round to using them from time to time. My assortment of nonsense just sits and calls to me every time I enter the garage. The container reveals much about the random way in which I choose to save things; it probably reveals quite a lot about the state of my mind too. It contains several magnets saved from fridge door toys. One piece of chalk formally part of a puncture repair outfit. A rubber foot from the bottom of a TV. One rechargeable battery: the charger being broken and discarded many moons ago. A plastic peg for securing a guitar string. One rubber ball from a computer mouse. One wing nut from an old magazine rack. Three replacement Christmas tree bulbs: kept even though we bought a fibre optic type four years ago. Two counters form an old game of Cludo. All of these are housed together with a collection of drawing pins, washers and paperclips. I keep the special box in the garage because periodically my wife has a ‘whizzing’ session and I have to dive in to save important objects before they are lost to the green, corporate world of recycling. The porch light was mentioned nearly ten months ago so I really do need to take the time to fix it. The problem is that it is completely enclosed and the wood around the fixing plate seems a little suspect. I am concerned that if I remove it I will be left with further work to add to the list, involving screws, nails, glue, varnish and other representations of real work. In reality it takes me seven and a half minute to fix; of which four were getting the step ladders off the wall and positioning them safely below the light fitting (I also had time for a sip of coke and a bite of my mid morning toast). 'How come it was so easy but took you the best part of a year to fix it' asks my wife, not unreasonably. 'It needed a coat of looking over first' I said and scurried off to play with my collection of magnets.
The Offside Rule
Being the father of four daughters I am usually loathed to make stereotypical comments but it seems to me that some generally held views are difficult to deny. I like to think that I have had a positive influence upon my girls and am comforted that they enjoy some of the music that has become important to me. I too have had my eyes opened, or should that be my ears, to music that they have discovered. I still insist on a Dad's right to mispronounce the names of younger bands ever so slightly. When it comes to football, however, I have failed miserably in getting them to appreciate the beauty of our national sport. I spent many hours, during their younger years, explaining the offside rule at the dining table. Ask any of the four girls and they will tell you that it is when there isn't a pepper pot between the ketchup bottle and the vinegar at the moment when sprout is passed (as long as it isn’t interfering with the dinner). No matter, they are just not interested and even when they try to comply with my requests for family involvement in viewing an important England match, they never sound convincing. 'Those blue shirts don’t go with that players eyes', or 'Why have they taken the good looking one off and replaced him with an ugly player'. It is all too much and I am left retreating to another room to watch the game with just John Motson's voice for company. I have to face up to the difference between me, as the only male in the house, and my wife and daughters. There are those who, in an attempt to win equality for the sexes, perhaps confuse being equal with being the same. My wife and I have brought our girls up to soar in all that they want to achieve. For us equality is a minimum standard that our society should expect. Having said that, I am totally convinced that women and men see the world in different ways. The whole nature verses nurture debate is redundant in one sentence; both are true. This was never more evident to me than an occasion a number of years ago when we were at a family event where all the cousins were present. Both boys and girls were united in the common games of 'tick' and 'fill your plate with more food than you can eat'. I had taken with me a small electronic box with flashing lights and interesting noises for our kids to play with.One by one each child came to look at this new toy. Each of the girls carefully picked up the item gave it a looking over and placed it back down carefully on the table. The boys had a different method of exploring. Each one ran to the table as if about to trip and smash their heads on the corner. Picking up the game the shook it, bit it and bashed it on to the highly varnished surface. The girls looked and were mildly interested the boys wanted to know how it worked when you shook it, what it tasted like and would it break. On this occasion one of the young nieces gathered all the other children together and suggested with wide, excited eyes, 'Let's go and piss the cat off'. There was a gasp as the adults looked at each other in horror. The shocked silence was broken when the crowd of youngsters ran towards the cat making Pssssssssssssss noises. Most of us laughed. One or two, who were still eating at the time, splutted half chewed food over the others. Once we had given an old Aunt the Heimlich manoeuvre and wiped mushroom vol-au-vent off our posh clothes we continued to chuckle at such a happening.When the young girls had finished chasing the cat they went back to dancing the locomotion whilst the young lads flew imaginary planes. All the children, however, were united in stamping every crisp and peanut they could find into the carpet. It seems that everyone is equal but some are more able to appreciate football more than others.
