AIRPORT LOTTO, OR PLAY THE SLOTS
EVERY time I arrive at an airport, Mr Grumpy comes too. It’s nothing to do with the check-in procedure or security barrier, even though they can be annoying, and everything to do with the car parking.
Every slot I go for seems to have shrunk.
Cars are growing all the time, and hulking SUVs feel as if they need a girdle to tackle narrow country roads. Yet the airport people still seem determined to jam-pack as many slots as possible. Even parks that were adequate for a Commodore or Falcon are now re-striped to squeeze the slots.
One morning I had three attempts to slide a tiddler Renault Clio between a Nissan Navara and a VW Touareg sitting right on their lines. In tennis, they would have been out.
I could barely crack the door open without banging the Nissan.
Mr Grumpy was not happy. But then Mr Happy cracked a smile, as I spotted a tiny Proton Savvy jammed — naughty for sure — in the middle of two handicapped spots. The space between the two other parked cars was bigger than the slot I had just taken.