The Ryno Pen

… as any Two Ronnies fan could tell you, mean “No Parking At All, At All”.I was reading a post in Mother Of Shrek’s blog, in which she bemoans the folk (without appropriate permits) who use her Disability Parking space.

I needed, and used, disability parking for a few months after getting my Big Break. Now I’ll admit some of ‘em are the kind you don’t mind not being able to access, like the ones at a certain government office block in Canberra, which are furthest from the entry doors (unlike the Executive spaces, a mere well-fed waddle from the lifts).

Thinks: One must remember that some disabilities are not visible, and that, like the aforementioned execs, some of those who usurp the Space With The Wheelie Sign have pervasive mental problems, such as Knobhedd-Phuqwitt’s Syndrome.

But I digress….

According to this report, in Pitt Street in central Sydney “more than 80 per cent of parked cars carry the precious cards” (meaning disability parking permits).

And apart from the vermin who borrow or fraudulently acquire the permits, there are those who just plain don’t care, or claim

• Importance Of Task (I do the banking for the Golf Club!),
• Urgency (I must get cigarettes, NOW!),
• Immunity Through Power Of Job (let me through, I’m a Pool Filter Contractor!)

or similar crap.

Every entitlement bitch in the world has their sights on the disability spots. It’s their own reserved piece of handy parking, and all that’s needed is a piece of plausible spin to claim it.

I’ve seen and heard of (of course I do not admit to doing or witnessing) some interesting things when the obviously-able park in disabled spaces.

Imagine a bloke doing an imitation of a US Southern evangelist type, waving his hands to the heavens, and hollering, “Hall-ee-LOO-yah! It’s a miracle! This man, brothers and sisters, was so crippled he parked his one-tonne truck, full of tools, my beloved brothers, in the Disabled Zone… and now… he walks! Praise God! And, look, now he RUNS!”

(And he did indeed run, full-tilt toward the imitation TV preacher, who had to bugger off sharpish.)

I saw this a few years ago, in a city which shall remain nameless. Little old lady, obviously badly arthritic, arrived at the local shops, only to find a large shiny Mercedes angle-parked in the only disability spot, all other parks taken, and the Merc’s owner strolling briskly into the shops despite her indignant calls and honks.

Sh parked her old Morris behind the Merc, effectively snookering it, and got about the business of setting up her Zimmer frame, laboriously getting about her shopping, and eventually returning to her car and driving off.

Yes, the Merc guy was quite upset. He was also outnumbered by onlookers.

The most classic war of escalation I’ve seen on parking, however, wasn’t disability-related. It was a small loading bay in an alley I walked down every day on my way to lunch.

The alley served as rear access to a number of shops, close to the greasy-spoon where I was wont to buy my daily thrombosis fix. Whether due to the nearby cafe or for other reasons, a small sedan seemed to have taken dibs on the spot under the Do Not Park Here sign behind the workwear store.

After a while, small slips of paper could be seen under the wipers, a different one every day. By week three, the message was appearing on pieces of cardboard about the size of LP covers.

The car’s owner remained unmoved, and during trading hours, so did his car. From the slightly-different positioning, it obviously moved overnight.

The day came when the paper and cardboard ceased to appear. Instead, clever use was made of a broad-tip indelible marker and the ol’ Da Vinci mirror-writing. From outside, the screen looked like:

Alas, the driver parked there again.
Same message was left, in the same bold hand on the screen.

Written
with
a
diamond.