Into the car park slinks a dark green car, crawling like an injured dragon or, let’s speculate here, as if the driver has had little sleep, and in the middle of a night-time crisis, is trying to find the correct car park. An impartial observer would have noted it was an old Rover, T-reg, and definitely in need of air in its tires.
The car park was empty, an occasional ambulance but that was it. Dark, eerie, is there anything more terrifying than an empty hospital car park at night? The dragon stops at the barrier and the driver takes a ticket. A heated discussion is taking place, the driver is gesticulating like a petulant child...
“Listen,” I said, “I CANNOT believe that we have to pay to park. It’s 3am, the car park is empty, my daughter is sick and these capitalist opportunists have the audacity to charge us two quid, DESPITE all my taxes and National Insurance contributions.”
“Now is NOT the time,” said my wife, so I shut up.
At the end of the day a couple quid isn't that bad. There are worse things to worry about. Mortgage negotiations for example, or buying a house off an old lady who is buying off another old lady and the contract exchanges are on hold while the two biddies bicker over who keeps which light fitting. Or getting a bit of chicken stuck between your teeth for three weeks.
So I stopped complaining.