RMOAMLC (4)
WORDS OF ADVICE
It’s Tuesday morning and I’m on the school run. Ask any parent and they will tell you, modern day education is a minefield of cliques, gangs and bullying. And then there are the kids. Suburban schools are no longer governed by teachers instead they are run by mothers who control their domain like Chicago gang bosses. Fathers are treated as non-combatants, tolerated and allowed to drop off their offspring just so long as they make sure not to attempt to involve themselves in any aspect of school life.
After several years of regular drop offs I had earned the occasional peremptory “Hello,” or glacial smile from the other parents. That was, of course, until I committed the ultimate suburban sin of leaving home, news of which spread like herpes on a Club 18-30’s holiday. Ever since I have been treated rather worse than a pariah and so, as far as possible, I try to stay away from school.
This morning I am late picking the boys up and I’m in a rush to drop them off. There is an air of tension in the car. “If it’s alright with you I’m going to drop and scoot,” I say trying to sound upbeat. There is a non-committal grunt from the back of the car. “Only I Have a meeting to get to,” I add as if they might be remotely interested. When, finally, we near the school every possible parking space is taken. “Just drop us off here,” says Emil. I do as he suggests and pull onto the pavement where the kerb drops to allow access to the staff car park. The boys collect their bags and get out of the car. I am so busy saying goodbye and waving as they exit from the passenger side of the car that I don’t notice the figure that appears at the driver’s side window and knocks sharply.
My head snaps round to see the stern face of authority. I say “stern face” but in reality the visage gurning at me through the window looks like Mr Potato Head let himself go a bit. I say “authority” but as I wind down the window I notice that what I took to be a police uniform has the tell-tale blue flashings that denote I’m dealing with a police community support officer. “Good morning sir,” he says in a world weary monotone that manages the neat trick of injecting the word “sir” with total disrespect.
“Morning,” I respond.
“You know what I want to speak to you about?”
“Parking?” I venture apologetically.
“Correct. We do not park on the pavement outside a busy school.”
At this moment I have 3 options:
A Apologise and point out that I am somewhat pushed for time so could we please take it as read that I am fully contrite, won’t do it again in order that I can get on with my day.
B Moral outrage that in these lawless times my time and taxes are being expended in this pointless charade.
C Suck it up.
I play it safe and opt for C.
“I’m not going to issue you with a penalty notice,” says Potato Head and my heart lifts momentarily until he continues, “instead I will be offering you words of advice which I will record on this ticket.” With this he produces a carbonated form about 1 foot long which he proceeds to write upon with all the urgency of a dyslexic with writer’s block. From time to time he asks me to provide some vital information such as my name but for the most part he paces around the car examining it from all angles with an air of grave suspicion while at the same time he talks into his radio.
By now I am acutely aware that this particular piece of theatre is playing out in front of all the parents dropping off their charges to school and that they must think I am involved in a jihadist terror plot or at best am peddling drugs to their children at the school gates. While I’m writhing with embarrassment Potato Head appears once more at the driver’s door. He continues his meticulous written record of our encounter and as he writes I notice a pattern of criss-cross scars on the inside of his left forearm running from his wrist to his elbow at which point his arm disappears into the sleeve of his shirt.
Finally he finishes writing and leans down until his face is level with mine. “Just one more question sir; Are you happy with the way this stop has been conducted?”
I ponder the question. Am I happy to have been publicly humiliated by a charmless cretin who self harms in front of a group of people who need little encouragement to think badly of me for the trifling offence of parking for 30 seconds on the pavement and the now I have to do a customer satisfaction survey? “Yes,” I respond.
Potato Head records my response mechanically before tearing off one of the copies of the ticket which he hands to me. “Have a good day,” he says with no hint of irony.
“Thank you,” I reply in a tone dripping with it but I’m pretty certain it’s wasted effort.
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