It’s always the smallest thing that tips one over the edge.
It’s always the smallest thing that tips one over the edge. This week I cracked. I sat on the pavement outside King Edward VII’s hospital and shamelessly sobbed. My husband was ill with septicaemia, and I was desperate to get to him. I was panicked, worried sick and keen to get up to his room to make sure he was all right after an interminable night spent apart. I’d found a parking space — this particular grid of private medical care in the heart of London offers perhaps the last bastion of dependably available parking spaces — and hurriedly began the endless process of pay-parking by telephone.
I’d found my glasses, found the sign, texted my four-digit location code, confirmed my car’s registration, entered the number of minutes I wished to park, and was waiting for confirmation.
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