Sorry You Got the Wrong Numbers

In an earlier post I mentioned the trials and tribulations of driving to Oxford for a little day trip. Driving was interesting, but I knew better than to drive into the city center.

Which is how we found ourselves standing in front of an automated parking fee kiosk.

Fortunately, we were in England and the instructions were seemingly easy to understand. It seemed.

We were instructed to enter the license number of the rental car into the machine, then insert a credit card for payment. The cost to park was only £4.80 or a little less than $6, for someone who is used to paying for parking in LA that’s almost free.

The only issue was we were parked in the far corner of the parking lot and I didn’t really feel like walking back to the car. But I looked at the key fob for our trusty rental and noticed that there were several numbers on it.

Not being familiar with the alpha-numeric complexities of British license plates, I paused – staring blankly at the three possible solutions for our issue.

I figured the one set of numbers that was bold must be the license plate numbers. I entered it into the machine. After a second it spit out my receipt and we were on our way.

We proceeded into Oxford and had a very nice day.

At the end of the day we returned to the Park and Ride. As we approached our car, I noticed something taped to the front windshield directly in front of the driver’s seat.

I had gotten a ticket.

Now, I like to think that as I age, I’ve gotten a little better and controlling my temper. Not that day.

I angerly removed the ticket without opening up the clear plastic envelope. I tossed it into the back seat and got behind the wheel for our return trip to the hotel.

Hours later, and after dinner and more than one glass of wine, I opened the “ticket.”

How very British.