After being referred to the physio department back in June, I finally had my first appointment for my dodgy ankle today. It ran over the 45 minutes they'd told me which meant I was about 15 minutes late back to my car, where I found a nice traffic warden had left me a parking ticket under my windscreen wiper.
Seriously, on the ticket it records the time my £1.50-worth of parking ran out (9.24) and the time they wrote the ticket (9.35). I got back to my car at 9.39 and there was no one in sight, which leads me to conclude the buggers slap on the fine and then scuttle back off to lurk under a nearby rock.
The ironic thing is we're always told to be helpful to the council and the police and whoever else, but when we need someone to give us 15 minutes grace, that grace isn't forthcoming from the greasy little retarded jobsworths employed to make everyone else's life just that bit more difficult.
One consoling thought is that 'what goes around comes around'. Apparently traffic wardens are one of the occupations most likely to develop work-related stress, depression and mental problems. Well, good. I've heard it said that a good maxim for happiness is to seek to try to make the world a better place every day. In which case the git who ticketed me deserves to be miserable and filled with self-loathing until he stops being such a complete *$%#!
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