Fumes and concrete: the car park is a version of hell. My mood slumps in increments as I edge down the ramp, a devilish spiral devised to graze paintwork, bend bumpers, and fray tempers. It’s bumper to bumper, a descent in spasms. In time, it ends. I draw to a stop at the exit and check the road for traffic. A car swerves from the far lane in a pre-emptive jag and lands with a lurch at a badly judged distance from the ticket pylon. The driver is a seriously senior citizen, dented as her car. Wrinkles and rings; eyes, italicized, high-priestess style; lips, a buckled slash of red resolve – seriously feisty, she’s hell-bent on life. One rickety arm snaps out. It’s a twig in a high wind bobbing about aiming for the button. The button is a moving target but eventually she spikes it with a scarlet nail and the machine sticks out a tongue. She snatches the card, whips it in, clenches it in her teeth, winks at me – I wink back – and roars up the ramp. We’re down but not out.
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