Family, Melbourne, Parenting, Relationship and marriage, Writing

Getting out of a car park

Driving home from netball this morning, we stopped into our local Coles. Hubster ran inside to get a few things that we desperately needed, while me and T1, T2 and Our Girl waited in the car.

Hubster arrived; three products tucked under his arm. I reversed out of the space, then drove towards the entrance/exit to the car park. As I approached, a car turned left from the road into the car park. He was wide, the front of his car well into my lane. I stopped. His window and mine were both down. He yelled, ‘Pick a fucking lane, genius.’

I sat, dumbstruck. I turned to the Hubster and said, ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ (Yes, our children were in the backseat, and with very little shame I confess they’ve heard the F-bomb from me many times before.) Hubster, clever fellow that he is, sensed I was angered by the incompetent moronic driver, shrugged and said, ‘Just drive on.’

Moral of the day: it’s prudent to let other people’s fucktardiness wash away, like water off a duck’s back.

 

4 thoughts on “Getting out of a car park”

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