A minor dispute plus a shotgun equals a no-brainer

EMISSIONS:The suburban parking war has the capacity to divide families, and there is no end in sight

WHAT IS it about minor disputes over parking spaces that causes otherwise rational, laissez-fairefolks to transmogrify into fire-breathing, bile-spitting, vengeance-seeking brutes? Or is that just me?

Allow me, if you will, to elucidate.

I used to live in a tiny cul-de-sac in sunny Crumlin. All the residents – salt-of-the-earth locals and blow-ins alike – were sensitive to the needs of others. We were, as one, acutely aware that space was at a premium and leaving your car two feet out of place could cause a domino effect of chaos that would spread like cancer through the neighbourhood.

Consequently, there was no reversion to our primitive caveman past of teeth-baring territoriality. With a noble, socialist and mutually respectful spirit, we endeavoured to maximise the available space, using great skill and deft manoeuvring to shoehorn in as many cars as possible with the minimum of hassle to each other.

There were lots of metaphorical camels shoved through the eyes of imaginary needles. Without getting too doe-eyed about it, the whole process was pretty enlightening.

I have since moved to more verdant and, dare I say it, salubrious surrounds, where there is more room than you could shake a Range Rover at. You’d think this would signal an end to my years of high-pressure performance parking. Alas, no. For, as the fundamental rules of nature attest, matter – in this case cars – expands to fill available space.

Because there is such an expanse of choice, care, consideration and communism have gone out the window. The prevailing attitude seems to be that, as there’s all the room in the world, it matters not a jot where one plonks one’s car.

I speak from some experience. For I have recently emerged, miraculously unscathed, from a lengthy parking war of attrition with my neighbour.

Our semi-detached houses each have a driveway amply sufficient for two cars and a shared space in front for one more. There are five cars between our households. A simple equation. Or so you’d have thought.

My neighbour, a preening Alpha Male, didn’t see it like that. As far as he was concerned, the space in front was his and his alone. Why should he bother going to the trouble of driving his car into his own driveway when he could just leave it outside on the road instead? If, as a result, I had to leave my car around the corner to the mercy of delinquent teens, what concern of that was his?

I’m sure he considered scent-marking his patch through urination and defecation. Not having spied 24 hours a day, for all I know, he did.

If ever I arrived home to find the space empty, I’d park in it. But no matter what time of day or night, if I moved, he’d have annexed it by the time I returned.

This situation was never mentioned when we spoke. We’d be nice as proverbial pie to each other, smiling with the sincerity of election candidates as we shot the breeze.

The situation finally came to a head when his car was broken into while parked outside someone else’s house. Glowering at me, he explained that he’d wring the neck of whoever was responsible. And pointedly, for the umpteenth time, quietly informed me he had a shotgun under his pillow for dealing with anyone who displeased him.

He didn’t threaten me. But then, he didn’t need to.

There and then, we came to an unspoken agreement. I agreed to defy the laws of physics and jam all three of my family’s cars into my driveway. And he agreed not to shoot me. It’s a win-win.

By the way, I’m aware you may be wondering why I am not addressing the drink-driving debate this week. The answer is simple. As far as I’m concerned, political posturing aside, there is no debate. If you drink, don’t drive. Case closed.