Stalker or walker? Parking rows can drive you crazy Author: Rosemary O'Brien Date: 01/02/2006 Publication: Sydney Morning Herald
PEOPLE who seek parking spots come in two distinct categories. You'd think same-strategy parkers would occasionally end up together in life, but it is my experience this is never the case. Don't commit until you see him/her park is my advice, because arguing about parking matters is a highly stressful ritual.
A friend recently said in sympathy, "Oh, I know the scenario, Bob and I fight all the time about parking - he wants to park smack bang outside the venue, whilst my philosophy is always 'take one when you see it'." Well, she was half right. My F.T. (fellow traveller) favours parking about five kilometres from our destination, convinced there'll be nothing closer. His adage "the walk will do us good" is a hard barrow to push when yours truly is teetering on seven-centimetre heels with rain belting down that would have challenged Noah. Show me a parking routine and I'll show you the man/woman.
Now, take my F.T. - he is a person of structured habit, but, in well-defined things, a pessimist. Let me paint you a picture. We set off in relatively good spirits for the shopping centre. As we approach the parking area, a sense of foreboding descends. I, being ever-helpful, have my eyes already scanning the possibilities.
"There's one, next to the Escort."
"Don't be nuts, there's no way I'm going to squeeze in next to that door-flinger - we'd come out and I'd have a scratch you could roll Jaffas along."
Another decisive moment follows. "Nothing here, will I go up or down?"
"There's no point going down, the earlybirds and disabled have snaffled those." So, naturally, we drive down.
Years of prowling mean I know all the lurks. "Follow that bloke, he's jiggling his keys." A sigh that Sharapova would envy comes from my F.T.
"Now, it's come to this, I'm bloody well stalking some poor sod who's probably jiggling his rosary beads. How do you know they're his keys?"
"Trust me, I've seen his type before."
Round we go, tracking this fellow, trying to judge by the quickening of his pace whether he's in row P33 or P15. Eventually he jumps over the wall onto the street and climbs into his BMW. Chagrin is not too strong a word to describe the driver's state, coupled with vindication. "I told you that was a useless exercise. Better to follow that dame with the DJ's bags; she's definitely on her way to the car.
By now his good humour has returned and his F.T. sits sulking against the passenger door.
"Do what you like, you're always bloody right."
He's actually whistling now as we're about three metres behind the stalkee. The woman opens her boot and throws in the bags. She turns around and with a nonchalant wave indicates she is about to re-enter the fray. Temporarily, he's decimated, but then triumphant - "There's one right near the entrance." Our luck has changed - or has it? The space is painted blue and in its centre is the outline of a wheelchair.