There they are, outside our house, in their splendid navy uniforms with green trim, stalking the pavements from 8.30am every weekday, all the better to catch the slumbering fool who has left his souped-up car on the single yellow for one minute too long. Then they pounce, slapping a tiger-striped packet of doom under the windscreen wiper, watched by horrified pedestrians whose misplaced sympathies lie with the errant motorist.
I like traffic wardens because of the petty officialdom that they symbolise. Most of us barely grasp that it is this officialdom that helps to maintain civic order. Just as we should not be able to drive at the speed of our choosing — because everyone, with blissful ignorance, believes they are more capable behind the wheel than other idiots on the road — drivers should not have the right to dump their chariots wherever they like. This is symptomatic of a wider, unsayable truth: allowing people to do what they want is generally a recipe for disaster. The narrow streets of Central London would become impassable, and my unglamorous neighbourhood would be littered with half-rusted eyesores.
Yes, I have received the odd parking fine in my time — and paid up with a smile, because I knew I was dicing with danger and deserved to get stung. I have now taken it upon myself to smile at traffic wardens. It terrifies them, because nobody smiles at petty officials unless they’re a psycho.
I don’t like . . . people who are rude to traffic wardens. Why the four-letter words and jabbing forefinger? They are only doing their job, which doesn’t make them legitimate targets for abuse. You are just drawing attention to a) your foul temper, b) your dire conflict resolution skills and c) your inability to read parking signs. None of which makes you remotely attractive to the opposite sex.