Mind your head

“Hotel is full,” bouncer man said. “Rugby fans. You park over there.” He pointed to an underground multistorey across the road, which was a bizarre, tight, strange shape and descended countless layers, drilling straight into the earth. It would be like driving down a spiral staircase. If hell has a car park, that would be it.

I’ve made countless similar mistakes. They’re like paper cuts to my soul

But in the hotel there were empty parking spots —lovely, wide, above-ground ones, shimmering invitingly like the last parking spaces left in heaven. “Hotel is not full,” I told bouncer man. “Parking for residents only.”

“I’m a resident.” Sort of. “I’ve an appointment in the spa.” Even now I cringe a little reporting those words — the haughtiness. “And I’m not parking over there.”

Strange shifts were going on in my emotions. Later, with the benefit of hindsight, I would identify them as disappointment and fear, but, at the time, I eyeballed bouncer man (we’ll call him Hans) mutinously: “I’d better cancel my appointment.”

Certain that we were just playing a little game of brinkmanship, I rang the spa and said I couldn’t come because Hans wouldn’t let me in. I said the last bit loudly so that Hans would hear. The spa receptionist said: “What about the car park across the road?” And, in fairness, I did consider it, but by then, the whole business had become a battle of wills.

So, in an open-and-shut case of cutting my nose off to spite my face, I cancelled my appointment. Even then I was hoping that Hans would lift the chain and say, “Ah go on.” But he just stood there, as solid and silent as a Smeg fridge. So I stuck my head out of the car window and said in scathing tones: “Thanks for a lovely afternoon, Hans.” Then I screeched away, scarlet with rage.

At home, I told Himself the story and embroidered it a teensy bit by saying that Hans had shrugged, “Your spa appointment is not my problem.” Then I rang Posh Kate, and we agreed that Hans was a power-crazed bully, and I said: “I was actually afraid of him.”

A while later my sister dropped in and I beefed up the “afraid of Hans” theme even more, and by the sixth or seventh retelling, I’d embellished things so much that I had Hans kicking my car door and shouting “You snotty bitch” after me.

Every time people sympathised, I liked it. But my self-righteous ire had begun to drain away, and a little voice was whispering that Hans had only been doing his job.

With each more elaborate retelling of the story I was trying to conceal my shame. But it was like the time my mother did up her bathroom on the cheap by painting over the fish wallpaper. No matter how many coats of paint she put on, the fish kept breaking through and reappearing.

By the following morning I understood what had happened: my happy expectations had been thwarted, and I’d been disappointed. On top of that, I was afraid of hell’s car park. But Hans wasn’t to know, and I was awash with shame. And the thing is, I can’t afford shame. Well, I should say, I can’t afford any extra shame — for whatever reason, I’m already full to bursting and, in an attempt to quell it, I binge on sugar or I try to balance the cosmic books by doing things I don’t want to do for people I don’t like.

I’ve done terrible things in my life — not terrible terrible, I’m not Osama bin Laden — but I once cheated on a man I loved. And I was disloyal to a boss who had been good to me (and my punishment is that even though it was more than 20 years ago, I still dream about it). But, as well as the big-ticket events, there are countless smaller items.

Once I spent an afternoon at a barbecue addressing a friend of my brother’s by the wrong name — by the name of another man, who had, in fact, stolen the first man’s girlfriend. And the thing was, I knew something was off, so I tried to fix it by saying his (wrong) name more and more, because I had read somewhere that to engender intimacy, it’s good to address a person by name. I couldn’t tell you how many times I said, “Isn’t that right, X?” When all along his name was Y.

I only realised my error when I was leaving and bumped into X, who had deliberately showed up late because he had his new girlfriend (ie, Y’s ex) in tow and he was hoping to avoid meeting Y. I should have gone straight back in and apologised to Y, but I was too mortified. The memory still makes me cringe, like lemon juice on an oyster.

I’ve made countless similar mistakes; OK, no one died, but they’re like paper cuts to my soul. I want to be a good person, but despite my best intentions I do bad things, because I’m a human being and therefore am flawed to my core.

The only way I can help myself is to stop adding to my already colossal reservoir of shame, and that means apologising. Which I find very difficult. My ego doesn’t like admitting that I made a mistake. Also, I was brought up to be “a good girl”, and I’ve never shaken the fear of “getting into trouble”. By saying sorry, I’m admitting culpability, so for a long time my motto was: “When in doubt, lie.”

But I’ve learnt that, humbling as apologising is, it’s better for me in the long run. So I drove back to the lovely hotel and parked (plenty of spaces that day). Hans was guarding the front door, and when he saw me approaching he looked wary. I maintained steady eye contact and, even though I was quaking, I delivered my rehearsed speech: “Hans, I’m very sorry about my behaviour yesterday. It wasn’t your fault there were no parking spaces.”

He nodded stiffly: “Just trying to do my job.”

“Just trying to do your job,” I agreed eagerly. “And I’m sorry I made it difficult for you.”

We eyed each other, and for a split second I thought we might have a Hollywood moment and share a hug. But it passed. “Well, grand, thanks,” I said. “Um, goodbye.”

“Bye,” he said.

Then I returned to my car and, feeling a little bit lighter, off I drove, back into my life.