If there’s one thing that I really hate having to do, it’s drop Lucy off at the train station. It’s the whole urgency that must be summoned, to do something you don’t want to do, that makes me so blue.
We spend little enough time together as it is—so when we do have the chance to do cool stuff together, like this past New Year’s holiday weekend we just spent together, which was the best I’ve ever had—which actually restored my love of the whole festive season for the first time since I was a kid—we like to cram as much in a possible and spend every last second in each other’s company.
Just like when you’re a kid, though, and the whole going back to reality thing kicks in after Christmas is done, the last thing I want to have to face up to before she’s even clambered aboard her train, is the small minded cuntyness of miserable people, who enjoy complaining about things, just to mess with people who are minding their own business.
The owner of a silver grey Ford Focus, registration plate R18 OBO, at Darlington railway station today, Saturday the 3rd of January 2009, is exactly the kind of cunt you don’t need. For he / she / it felt it necessary to park half way over the line into the next parking lot, in an always overcrowded and difficult to turn around in parking bay.
Because of this, I had to nudge right up to the edge of the bay I’d paid for, so that Lucy could get her bags out of the passenger side door, without pranging the door of the giant 4×4 next to us. The owner of a silver grey Ford Focus registration plate R18 OBO obviously didn’t realise this was why I parked so close to his badly parked piece of shit—and so half way through the last sips of our coffee, before that dreaded heartache of waving good bye to each other, until next time, I had to dash back to the car park to “move the car causing a major obstruction to the highway”, as the platform announcer boomed out the description of my car three times, over the Tannoy.
The fact that the station didn’t check their facts before dragging me away from making sure my baby got away safely, when I worry constantly about her, until she calls to say she made it back home, from a journey, most of it in the dark on her own and having to change three times, is bad enough. The fact that sitting close to us in the waiting / coffee area I was getting a bad vibe off a creepy looking chav who was staring at Lucy and me, while holding up his phone (possibly to take candid shots, although he could have been texting) just set my mind racing, and before I could think straight, I was imagining him deliberately getting the station to announce the erroneous car parking complaint, so he could get between me and and Lucy on the platform and do something nasty to her.
Irrational worrying usually subsides in me pretty quickly, but in this case it gave way to anger at such people who can’t just leave other people alone. So once I’d made sure she was on the train safe and that weird man in coffee shop hadn’t abducted her, I decided to take down the registration plate of the silver grey Ford Focus, R18 OBO and make sure everyone on the internet knows how much of a puke drinking fuck stick it’s owner is. Happy new year, you miserable little piss stain, I hope you get eye cancer and see yourself to death.
That is all.