It’s 3 o’clock on a Friday afternoon. I’ve just finished a particularly gnarly piece of work and I’m looking to call it a week and lay back into some music and beer. The primary school opposite Foxy Towers is kicking out in a few minutes and the yummy’s have started to appear in their oversized SUVs, parking badly in the narrow lane outside, just up from the school entrance, so that Jasmine and Teejay don’t have more than 30 metres to walk.
The one parked right outside my office window has a truck the size of Wiltshire, still has the engine running, and is concentrating hard on her mobile, probably trying to find TOWIE on Neflux or something equally engrossing. She’s breaking two traffic laws simultaneously, and pissing me off into the bargain. I go downstairs and put the kettle on for a wind-down cuppa, look out the the back and yes, she’s still there pumping fumes and tapping away. So I stroll out and walk around to the driver’s window. “Hello, would you mind turning your engine off while you wait, please?” I ask, polite and everything.
The response, with a snarl: “Why?”.
She’s straight in the mental bucket marked “Bottom feeding oxygen thief”.
Now, I’m sorry, but a reply like that has only one result with me; I withdraw all consideration of manners and understanding, on the basis that the respondant must be a) profoundly stupid and b) so crassly awash with a sense of entitlement that I’m not likely to get anywhere with a reasoned argument and a gentle approach.
What IS it with twenty-something parents in cars their parents probably couldn’t ever have dreamed of affording, toting £900 mobile phones and getting snappily uppity cos I have the temerity to ask them to stop polluting my airspace? Twats, says I. Probably voted for Brexit too.