At 6:18, a recovery truck turned onto our street.
I almost applauded.
The driver got out, photographed Denise’s car from several angles, checked the registration, then spoke to someone on the phone.
A few minutes later, a council enforcement officer arrived.
I had made two calls before Denise woke up.
One to the local authority’s parking enforcement line.
One to the approved vehicle-removal contractor they directed me to after confirming that a car obstructing access to a residential driveway could be dealt with if the circumstances met their rules.
I had spent the previous evening reading everything.
Twice.
Because I wanted a lesson.
Not a criminal record.
At 6:31, the truck operator began securing the front wheels.
At 6:33, Denise’s bedroom light came on.
I actually checked the clock.
I don’t know why that detail still makes me laugh.
Her curtains snapped open.
For three seconds, nothing happened.
Then they shut again.
Ten seconds later, her front door flew open.
Denise came running outside in slippers and a dressing gown.
“What are you doing?”
The recovery driver didn’t even look surprised.
“Morning.”
“Take that off my car!”
The enforcement officer stepped forward.
“Is this your vehicle?”
“Obviously it’s my vehicle!”
“Could I see some identification, please?”
Denise looked across the street.
At me.
I was standing in my kitchen doorway holding my coffee.
Her face changed.
“You.”
I took a sip.
