Uncle Dave often says "hell is other people". My personal hell is the parallel park on the Terrace.
For non-Wellingtonians, this is near the Terrace, the hub of the New Zealand's public service. The Terrace is always busy with traffic, but like all well meaning public services, its not really busy at all.
Finding a car park on the Terrace requires extreme luck. Next one must have the ability to expertly parallel park under enormous pressure from:
- That impatient bastard in the Audi waiting for you to park. Under these circumstances I advise to kindly inform the bastard that it is not your fault that he couldn't afford the extra $20,000 to buy a BMW.
- The amused pedestrians and slack jawed gawkers with little else to do but witness your parking demise. Well meaning feedback such as "get fucked" is advised.
Attempting to avoid parking humiliation, I headed for the car park off Bolton Street. This was even worse. It purported to contain public car parks. Alas it did not.
As I descended the 58 levels of car parks, it eventually became apparent that:
- Every single car park was "reserved". For whom, I couldn't tell, but clearly not for the great unwashed like me.
- Every ramp and corner was built for a hatchback. This resulted in my people mover's bumper sensors exploding into wild beeps as I embarked on 23 point turns at each of the 58 levels.
Having spent so long in this underground nightmare, there one final indignity. I was charged for leaving the car park. The expletives I projected would embarrass a drunk Scotsman. My nine month old in the backseat didn't seem to mind.
When I eventually surfaced, it was Tuesday afternoon. I had missed my Monday lunch date with the wife.
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