Towing & Ferals

An interesting evening on Saturday - quite pleasant, in fact. That is, until I discovered that my car had been TOWED away. Now, originally I laid full blame on my own stupidity for parking in a tow zone. But after the ordeal of getting him back, I realised that I was lucky to be alive, and any blame should be placed firmly on the head of the government...

After phoning around various tow companies, speaking to all manner of people from god knows what sections of society, I found little Jayden in a tow yard in Newstead. I made my way there to be greeted by a queue of ferals. The building was more like a tin shack, housing a grotty old sofa with sweat marks on the arm rests, and a small balding man behind what I can only assume was once the door to a prison asking people at the top of his lungs: "Are you a hoon tow, crash tow or parking tow?" I was the ONLY one who was a parking tow, and once this had been made public to the league of ferals sitting on the sofa, I was officially 'prey'.

After being told that I had to pay $300 to get my car out, I thought about complaining. The ferals, however, were eyeing my Gucci handbag greedily, so I paid up and made way for the pregnant woman standing behind me. She managed to spill half of her bottle of jack daniels on the counter before enquiring as to how long she had to find the money. Pleasant...

I was led through to the garage, and Jayden stood out like the jewel that he is, amongst the plethora of rust buckets and tin cans frequenting the tow yard. I inspected him for scratches and any excess dirt, and was about to complain about a dirty hand print on his boot, when the pregnant woman started screaming about the 'fucking pigs'. I thought it best to leave.

After a long hot shower and a cup of tea, I realised just how lucky I was to get out of there alive. Since coming in to work this morning, I have constructed exactly 2 emails of complaint and will be distributing these accordingly. I'm just musing the idea of claiming emotional trauma...