Day 7: Morning runners, riders and rollers

Many people start their day early; often before the sun rises: they have things to do, places to be and that's that; no questions asked.
Some people like to rise with the sun. They're crazy*.
Other people aren't affected in the slightest by those incandescent rays creeping through the gap in their curtains at 7.16am, but find themselves rising unjustly shortly after daybreak nonetheless, when awoken by those people who do like to rise with the sun. They are gradually driven crazy.

Indeed, I was compelled to seriously question my sanity yesterday morning, when woken up not only by the resounding lunacy and sprightly patter of the early morning joggers, but by the accompanying vocals of a talking van.

The Park Terrace parking spaces have seen their fair share of illustrious vehicles: A string of Land Rovers, BMWs and Audi family saloons frequent the street, exploiting the post-6.30pm charge-drop to make the most of an early-evening bite at Pizza Express or a romantic slap-up meal at the University Arms. A small, sexy, pastel blue Figaro was recently spied sauntering on the corner; and the loitering Harley Davidsons are a hit among the boys who need something masculine to sit on, stare at and discuss on a Friday night, because they are 15 and there is nothing else for them to do. Every so often, a souped-up Subaru zips past, exercising the freedom of screech heralded by the traffic warden taking his evening leave; and some of Cambridge's more pimped-out automobiles have been known to cruise round here for honeyz. Overall, any motoring excitement on Park Terrace is a strictly nocturnal affair. That is, until now...

Morning broke over Parker's Piece without any overt signal that it was to soon provide the backdrop for the performance of a distinctly Knightrider-esque scene. Bright, beautiful shafts of brilliant sunshine streamed through my open window, along with a soft breeze which cooled, gently whistled and carried on it the robotically dulcet (or perhaps dulcetly robotic) tones of what appeared to be a white Volkswagen van, having a conversation with the man in the driver's seat. David Hasselhoff was nowhere in sight, thank God.

Rather, the man was Mr. G. Cook (or one of his sons), and he was a specialist plastering contractor. A small crowd gathered to watch the (female) VW, with its broad Glaswegian accent, warning Mr. Cook that he'd encounter roadworks on the way home that evening, but that this was no excuse for him to return to the abode without the items from the shopping list which he would find folded in his glove compartment. He looked distressed, poor guy.

Now I'm sure that I and the other early risers were fully aware that what we were bearing witness to was no more science fictional than the world's loudest hands-free car-phone system (volume level 11); but nonetheless, the scene was nothing short of a spectacle. With all windows firmly closed, the showdown's vociferous momentum appeared very much one-sided; whilst the other side (Mr. Cook's) played out like a silent film. Mr. C's anguish soon turned to mild rage, as he gesticulated wildly and mouthed angrily, ocassionally spitting soundless venom at the suggestions that he was 'good for nothing' and 'a silly liar, of course it's in there, you're not looking properly. Idiot.' He was looking; though in his shoes, I'd probably have been looking a lot harder.

After about four minutes of to-ing and fro-ing like this, both parties seemed resigned to the fact that the shopping list was not in the glove compartment. VANessa** dictated a new list, which consisted only of eggs, milk, bread and triple-A batteries anyway. I think -I hope- they found a resolution; after all, it was such a beautiful morning.

No-one said anything to Mr. C about his speaker-phone's outside emissions, perhaps wary that he would fix it, depriving potential/future audiences of such high quality morning entertainment. As he hung up and drove away down Park Terrace, Mr. G. Cook, specialist plastering contractor, looked to be taking his show national. His dramatic presence and booming VANessa are sure to turn heads in and around parking spaces up and down the country; and assuming that Park Terrace was the first of his tour dates, the motoring celebrity stakes have been infinitely raised on this little strip of curb.

In the vain anticipation of something equally as captivating this morning, I tentatively strayed to the dark (actually, excruciatingly bright) side of craziness, and willingly arose with the sun: 7:16am. What a mistake. As it turns out, the Saturday morning rollers are neither entertaining, nor are they at all competent. Maybe it's the exciting prospect of two full days off work, or the disabling hangover from the night before, but there are only so many near-crashes that can occur on such a small one-way street. But occur they did. Shockingly.

The most common shortcoming of the Saturday morning driver lies in their incapacity to parallel park. On at least four separate occassions, the smallest of run-arounds spent 2-3 minutes each bashing the cars behind and in front of them, in a manner akin to that scene in Austin Powers (you know, the one that is actually quite funny?!). Some eventually realised their inadequacy and drove away in search of fresh pastures and wide-open (foolproof parking) spaces; others persevered, parked, surveyed the damage inflicted on the other vehicles, shrugged and walked away, seemingly guilt-free. Aside from the clarity of their consciences, my morning motorist musings have moved me to ponder whether the proposal of regular, continued driver testing is not, in fact, a fine idea. 

Granted, this is coming from the girl whose licence is dubiously and unjustifiably held; for whom it was not until the second driving test that 'Give Way' meant anything at all; and whose car -Nissan Mike- has come under police scrutiny for its disconcerting array of bumps and bruises. But I'm on crutches at the moment, and there is no danger that I will be getting behind a wheel for at least 6 weeks, so no-one's complaining. Least of all, Mr. G. Cook: with his early starts, enigmatic roadshow and tricksy shopping list, he's got bigger fish to fry. 

* Pop sensation, Diana Vickers is one example, singing 'I wanna wake with the sunlight in my eyes'. I doubt it; that sounds painful and ridiculous.
** I have no idea what her real name is; this seems apt.