As a useful rule of thumb, I tend to think that if Joan Bakewell can’t handle something then I oughtn’t to try. So I’ve given those pay-by-phone parking meters a wide berth since the BBC presenter ended up in court for failing to operate one properly.
Last week, however, I found myself in need of parking in Harley Street, the very place where Ms Bakewell came to grief. With nowhere in sight to dock the Peugeot other than the dreaded pay-by-phone spaces and with time running out for me to present myself for a blood test, I reluctantly came to the conclusion that the hour had come for me to face my fears.
‘Come on, Melissa. Gather. Gather.’ (I have been practising Kate Winslet-style self-mustering techniques.)
Naturally, the building opposite was swathed in scaffolding and swarming with builders drilling, concrete mixing and hammering. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to hear. Joan couldn’t hear.
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