I live on a road where parking is forbidden. This has not stopped any of us from needing cars. Instead, we crowd each evening into the small cul-de-sac opposite, where ten vehicles can park legally, and 15 can park optimistically. The sign is unambiguous: ‘Three hours. No return within two.’ 

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Most days I manage to comply. Some days I even set an alarm. The cruelty is that nothing happens for ages. Weeks pass. Months. You begin to suspect you have cracked the system or even that the sign is entirely ornamental, the sort of bluff recognisable to anyone familiar with the steady arrival of ‘Final’ notices. 

Then, without warning, that little yellow envelope appears on your windscreen. The wardens have descended like a pack of seagulls on an unattended tray of chips. 

And really, when I stop to think about it, there is something almost touching about this. The authorities, so totally absent from our lives in almost every other respect, remain rigorously attentive to parking infractions. The police may not be interested in the break-in at your flat. The helpline may be ‘experiencing unusually high call volumes at the moment’. The council may never quite call you back. But they really do mean it when it comes to that three-hour limit.  

Now consider a care worker........

© The Spectator