I won’t point to anything in particular – Trump, Bowie, Brexit – but there must be few among us that will look back on 2016 as a great year.
Since boatpoo-gate a few weeks ago, NC says I’ve just been unlucky.
You see, you could honestly not meet a more stupidly honest person than me, and yet where everyone else manages to be camouflaged when they make a mistake, I must walk around in hi vis clothing.
I’m the one that gets stopped by the ratty old person and accused of littering the beach when some wrapper I’ve been eating from gets blown away in a mild hurricane. I’m that person who somehow manages to lose the dog’s poo bag which was firmly attached to her lead before she’s done her business and then gets caught by the curtain-twitcher when she has to dump her load on the pristine lawn in front of their house.
I must also hold the suburb record for parking tickets.
Which must be why it was me who got the surprise visit from two policemen as I dished up dinner on Saturday night. Two very handsome policemen, I should add, which was the only part of the nightmare to make my shame slightly more bearable.
‘We’re from Glebe police station,’ the more muscled of the two began with, ‘and we’re here about an accident.’
Now if you have a son like Kurt and two policemen come to your house on a Saturday night and begin with those words, they can’t expect a calm reaction.
‘What?’ I responded, spraying his face with cauliflower rice while the Princess continued to bark behind me – because she has an innate distrust of “the boys in blue” due to intensive training by her brother – risking a noise pollution charge as well as the potential loss of her mama into police custody.
‘Do you drive a car with the this registration number?’ they continued, and of course if I knew my car registration number I would have been able to respond immediately with an affirmative.
‘Maybe…’ I said, sounding as guilty AF.
Anyway, it turns out that whilst collecting clients a few weeks ago – and I remember it well, because no woman wants to be the gender stereotype caught parking badly in front of a group of men who are watching you like a convocation of eagles – someone grassed on me.
I was trying to get into a small space, which I’m normally good at because I live in the city, have a rear-view camera and very over-sensitive sensors on both ends, (something the old man insisted on treated me to when we bought it), but obviously on this occasion I was somewhat over-confident to the point that I burnt out all four tyres turning the wheel to get into the damned space because with my audience the challenge soon became a matter of pride and a step for feminism. And when I’d finished and got out of the car with a ‘and that’s how its done boys’ look on my face, one of the guys kindly informed me that I was touching the bumper of the car in front ‘so you might want to move it, love,’ and being the caring citizen I am I went through the whole torturous process in reverse.
Anyway, one of them ratted on me and put a note on the other car to say that I had banged into his car – ALL LIES – and helpfully added my registration number as well. And the scratch, (which I will deny to my dying breath), led two hot policemen – who should have been doing proper police work such as searching my son for illicit substances on the streets of Sydney on a Saturday night – to my front door in suburbia.
And that is why I’m feeling unlucky and why I want to start again with 2017.