I'd like to park my car near my house, because the dog's hurt its paw and can barely walk a step. But can I? No. Because some selfish toad with a whacking great car has just swept up and parked across two spaces. I can't squidge my small car into the remaining space; I need six inches more. I ask, but Mr Toad won't move. He's already out of his car with a brisk sneer, swaggering across the road, leaving the wife to come twittering up to my car window.
"You'll be all right there," says she. "It's Saturday." I am blocking a drive, merciless wardens are probably lurking, and this creature with big curls and lipstick is telling me how to park. I'd like to jump out of the car, scream vile abuse and punch her husband in the chops, but I don't. Perhaps because Rosemary is next to me and my driver's door is jammed? No. I'm just weedy.
This only makes me more furious. Why did I not give this fellow a rollocking? Far be it from me to make sweeping sexist generalisations, but it is usually men who park like clots, half a car's length from the end of the bay. This one got away with it, probably for the 100th time, leaving me with a budding cluster of stomach ulcers. So I end up moving my car, screaming filth in the middle of the street and making offensive gestures at Toad's house. Futile.
"You're turning into one of those mad, shouting old women," says Fielding. "We had one in our village. Last time it was that rich woman's ugly house; now it's parking." And why not? Olga is at it too. She comes out of her house in a cheery mood, then spots five cars taking up eight spaces and grows an ugly, frowning grump-face. She doesn't want to feel like that.
"Chill out, Mum," say her sons. "Why are you bothered?" Why? Because this isn't just about parking. It's about people not giving a toss about anyone else. We plan to keep screaming.