Parking

So I’ve driven round the car park three times trying to find a useful space. I’m seven months pregnant, which means bump is now Bump and arrives a few minutes before I do. It also means there are some basic logistical issues I need to negotiate. Parking is one of them.

So I find a space- its not great but if I wedge the passenger side up close to the pillar, then I think I’ll have enough space to get out of the driver side. Phew. Logistics sorted and off I toddle for a lifestyle coffee and a cruise round mothercare. Wild.

Of course, it’s never that easy. When I get back to the car after an hour and a half, the nice sensible VW Golf that I parked next to has gone. In its place is some wide-mouth Audi A7 which has clearly been parked by some ass clown with no concept of personal space. Its parked, nay, wedged in the space between me and another sensible vehicle like some beached whale shark with a personal number plate. Given that I am also the size of a whale shark there is no chance of getting in the drivers side. At least not via opening the door. And the passenger door isn’t going to work either not unless I remove the concrete pillar I parked so conveniently close too.

But you know, I’m a resourceful woman. This is not going to stop me getting in to my vehicle. I briefly contemplate whether I could open the driver’s door a crack, enough to get the window down and then do some Dukes of Hazzard style entry in to my car through the window from the roof of the Whale Shark. Hmmm. Think I might get done for criminal damage. And not sure I’ll fit.

Perhaps I could reach the hand brake from the window. Nope.

Oh, I know. If I could open the boot and somehow unlatch the rear seats, I could crawl through the boot into the… Oh my god, what am I thinking.

My final course of action is to crack open the rear passenger door. Initially I think this is futile too. But I realize if I step up on to the foot plate I can raise my bump to a slightly wider part of the open door, above the arm rest thing. And slowly, tenderly I squeeze me and my bump on to the back passenger seats. Step one. I then try to shimmy (ha! Pregnant and shimmying…!) in between the two front seats, negotiating the gear stick (oh my). I realize the traditional head first way of doing this does not work for me in my curvaceous state and end up sliding feet first, bump up in to the driver seat.

And I’m there. In the driver seat. Ready to go. And I haven’t even spilt my (decaf) coffee.

Then the Ass Clown shows up. He gives me a jaunty wave, gets in to the whale shark and buggers off. I consider throwing my coffee at him.

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