£495 in Fines and a Chicken Catastrophe

Notes from a trying time...

Photo by Joseph Mama on Unsplash

I woke up in a terrific mood last Saturday. The boys had slept through, the sun was shining, and it wasn’t my turn to clean out the guinea pigs. Life was good. For at least twelve minutes. As I was getting out of the shower, Louise emerged on the landing clutching several pieces of paper.

‘I think this might ruin your weekend,’ she said, then paused for, in my opinion, quite a lot longer than necessary.

‘Why? What is it?’

‘The letters had been going to our old house. I opened them because they were addressed to me.’

‘Okay. What do the letters say?’

She eventually handed me the papers before walking downstairs, shaking her head.

It turns out that over the past few months, I have driven down a bus lane in Bradford FIVE times, racking up £495 in charges. Just to clarify, I have no recollection of doing this. Bus lanes are not a vice of mine. I am not an outlaw who likes to live in the margins (or, in this case, the margins of Duckworth Lane, Bradford).

I admit, though, that I am not the most observant of drivers and rely almost entirely on our sat nav. When people (ok, men aged 50+) ask for specific details about my journeys, I can never provide a satisfactory answer, and they sigh while thinking: how can he not know what the M56 is? Five fines for the same mistake feels a bit harsh, doesn’t it? Surely one would do the job.

I tried calling several numbers but had no luck in locating a human, so opted to punch myself in the thigh fairly hard before sending a grovelling email to Bradford City Council. An automated reply informed me that I would get a response to my appeal within 6 to 12 weeks. As I sat on the end of the bed with my head in my hands, Louise returned.

‘Did you tell them I wasn’t driving in any of the cases?’

‘Yes.’

‘Also, you haven’t forgotten you’re taking the boys dinosaur hunting, have you?’

‘No, of course not.’

Louise has discovered a new augmented reality app called Love Exploring. The premise is that you go to a park and look for dinosaurs to appear on a map on your phone. Like Pokémon Go, I imagine, although I’m not really an app guy. More a Nokia 3310-type.

Keenly avoiding any bus lanes, I drove the boys to Meanwood Park. Joshua immediately understood the idea, taking my phone and excitedly tracking down a Triceratops. Jacob did not have such a sound grasp but, desperate to be involved, started shouting and trying to grab the phone from Joshua.

‘No, Jacob! Go away!’

‘No, Joshua! You go away!’

This tête-à-tête rarely ends well.

Eventually, I snatched the phone slightly too aggressively, which killed all enthusiasm for the dinosaur hunt, and we headed, instead, to the playground. Taking two young children to a playground is stressful and, dare I say it, not much fun.

Fortunately, we were the only people there and the boys were content being pushed on the swings. I sent a picture of the happy scene to Louise as evidence that they were having a great time and I am an excellent father. The replying dots began bouncing.

‘Jacob is too small for that swing. He’ll fall off and bang his head.’

A few minutes later, two lads, around 18, stumbled by, chatting animatedly. They were wearing shirts and drinking cans of Red Stripe.

‘Yes, brother!’ one of them shouted. ‘What’s going on? You having a good one?’

Brother?

Evidently, he thought he was still in a nightclub.

‘Morning, lads,’ I offered, continuing to push a stiff roundabout too slowly for Jacob’s liking. ‘Yep, I’m having a good one.’

Ah, to be young again, I thought, then felt a pang of jealousy. I countered by assuring myself that the lads would soon be facing debilitating hangovers. Although it’s unlikely they will be worrying about a lengthy standoff with Bradford City Council in which the best possible outcome is only paying £99, isn’t it? Also, I highly doubt they will be spending their afternoon cleaning up guinea pig shit.

They win. Being young is fun.

As we were heading back to the car, we gave the dinosaur hunt one final go but, within an arm’s reach of catching a Diplodocus by a bin, my phone died.

In the afternoon, Louise’s mum and sister arrived for a weekend stay.

‘I’ve done the guinea pigs. We’re going to take the boys out, Andy,’ Louise said. ‘I take it you want to watch the match? There’s beer in the fridge.’

That’s odd? I thought before snapping up her offer before she could change her mind. Leeds won and it was a blissful two hours.

Later, after the boys’ dinner, the plot thickened.

‘Don’t worry about helping with their bedtimes tonight, Andy,’ Louise said. ‘We’ll do it.’

I am sure that in years to come I will reminisce about their baths and bedtime stories with great fondness but, in the present, occasionally getting to swerve the chaos is something of a treat. What the heck is going on, though? What does she want?

It turned out, not much. The only caveat was that I had to pick up our takeaway: a solid trade-off. Perhaps my wife was just being nice? It was beautiful weather, so I cycled to Wing-A-Ding chicken in Horsforth. When the guy said it would be a short wait, I sat on the grass, cracked open a beer, and soaked up the evening sun. This day had really turned around.

He handed over my order in two brown paper bags, then frowned and advised me to be ‘extra careful’ if I was planning on carrying them on my handlebars.

If you think you know where this is going, you are 100% correct.

I made it halfway home but, crossing the bridge by Horsforth train station, one of the bag handles SNAPPED and chicken and chips spectacularly exploded onto the road. A queue of traffic formed while I attempted to salvage what I could from the detritus. When someone beeped, I didn’t look up.

Photo by Corey Watson on Unsplash

Thankfully, I’d only lost three barbecue wings with the main casualty being a portion of loaded fries. As cars began to slowly flatten cheesy chips into the tarmac, I sat on the pavement, feeling extremely sorry for myself. Also, I had no means of transporting the remaining food home. I called Louise.

‘There’s been a disaster. Can you come and help?’

After I’d explained what happened, she questioned why a simple task was beyond me and accused me of being overdramatic. I thought this was a bit rich given the pause before she’d handed over my fixed penalty notice was deserving of an Eastenders ‘DOOF, DOOF, DOOF, DOOF…’ but didn’t mention it.

As I was waiting for her, something happened that neatly sums up the difference between men and women. A man drove past, pointing, laughing, and doing a hand motion to indicate I must be drunk, which was only very partially true. Minutes later, a woman pulled up and, with a warm smile, handed over an ASDA bag for life. She had seen the incident first-hand and gone home to get it. If, on the off chance she ever reads this, she is a true hero and I would like to buy her a portion of Wing-A-Ding chicken by way of thanks.

This offer does not extend to the pointing man.

Back home, we plated up the food and I was pleased to discover we’d overordered anyway. I hadn’t ruined our evening. Aside from a touch of gravelly seasoning, it was just about fine; the buffalo and blue cheese wings were superb, and I couldn’t recommend Wing-A-Ding highly enough. The cynics among you might think I am subtly sneaking some local advertising into my book. I assure you I am not. However, if Wing-A-Ding do fancy slinging a few quid my way, it wouldn’t go amiss.

Depending on the response from Bradford City Council, I’m going to need all the help I can get.

*

---

Thanks for reading this chapter of The Flagging Dad! Please do like, share, or comment about your own experiences or anything else you fancy.

Finally, if you’re feeling especially generous, please consider supporting my nonsense by subscribing or buying me a coffee below.

Cheers!