I don’t know if the scooter driver who rapped on my car window is reading this column, but I must point out that I was legally parked and it was his fault if he nearly ran into me. Had he not roared off in a smell of petrol, trailing expletives, I would have shared this wisdom with him.
Indeed, shouldn’t he have apologised for almost crashing into my rear? Alas, on the road, as in politics, apologies are rarely forth-coming. I thought I deserved one for being issued a parking ticket outside St Paul’s Cathedral; it was a Saturday afternoon, and naturally, I assumed that, as nobody goes to the City at the weekend, parking restrictions would be suspended.
They weren’t, apparently; I took the matter to appeal, and got a satisfactory letter in reply. After a vigorous correspondence, I have been less than gratified to discover that the letter, upholding the appeal, was sent by clerical error, and I have now received one of the other sort, rejecting it. An apology? I could whistle for one. Admittedly, I didn’t apologise when a cyclist somersaulted off his machine when I opened the door of my car during the school run. I didn’t want to admit liability. He, however, had the grace to say he’d just shot a red light. He was Spanish. What a gentleman.
