Illegally parked paunch

Oops. Right now, you may be feeling as cross with me as this young lady is with the hapless traffic warden. And you have every right too: I said a short story would be posted last weekend and failed to deliver. It was very nearly done, but... when I was reading it, I dunno, it just felt a little flat. The story, that is, not the protagonist, she's anything but!

Fear not, though, for since then I've come up with a new scene and added a character, which should make it better. The downside is that the story won't be ready until early next week. Sorry!

By way of compensation, here's an early concept pic of the character who became Sarah Lytton, star of Miss Cheshire's Check-up. I actually made this pic a few years ago, but never got around to writing the story that went with it. After applying a few new Photoshop touch-up techniques I've learned recently, I decided it was worth sharing. Even at the time, I was pleased with the shape of her belly, which, more by chance than skill, came out nicely soft and paunchy. In future, I might try to add a proper ticket machine to the warden's hands, if I can find a suitable Daz prop.

The scene itself was inspired by a real-life event. The office I used to work in overlooked a side road near a very posh private school. Every day parents would park down this side road - briefly, illegally, and much to the fury of local residents - to pick up their kids. There was a small area for legal parking on the adjacent main road, but you could only fit four or five cars onto it at once. And given the size of the cars driven by these wealthy parents, and the way they parked them, it was more like three in practice. Terrified of any scratch to the gleaming paintwork of their prized Beamers, Porsches and Range Rovers, they'd tend to leave huge gaps 'fore and aft.

Of course, the great thing about these expensive cars is that they were often piloted by deliciously haughty and glamorous milfs, who would occasionally disembark to help a child with a sports bag, or pop to the newsagents just around the corner. As you'd expect, they were for the most part glossy blondes in all-year sunglasses, wearing gym gear in the morning (an early yoga class after dropping the kids off, no doubt) and then light blue jeans and expensive cream jumpers at pick-up times. More often than not, these outfits would tend to be a little clingy around the thighs and tum, hinting at a surfeit of sugary cocktails on those extravagant Dubai and St Lucia holidays. Their motor of choice was, naturally, the white Range Rover: Sport or Vogue. You can almost taste the bitterness of those poor few who were force to roll up in Evoques. Oh, the humiliation!

Every day, at dropping off and picking up times (8.30am and just after 4pm) I'd watch these oversized, overpriced milf-driven motors start to arrive, quickly filling the legal spots on the main road and then pouring into this narrow side road like unwelcome, overdressed guests at a party: rolling their massive tyres up onto the pavements, performing eight-point turns, beeping impatiently at each other and bringing several old ladies out onto the doorsteps of their terraced houses to stand in that classic angry old lady pose: hands on hips, head shaking slowly.

Perhaps as a result of their complaints, the road became a hunting ground for parking wardens, which led to some humorous scenes. Picture four parents sitting in their respective Range Rovers, Mercs and Beamers, waiting for their offspring to emerge from school. A traffic warden strolls round the corner. Immediately the cars take off in convoy and go down a different side-street on the other side of the main road. The warden - a shrunken clone of Lurch from the Addams Family - pursues them, looking cross. A few minutes later the convoy peeks its nose out of its new street and returns in caterpillar formation to the original one, Lurch now jogging behind, cold fury on his face, ticketing device in hand.

On GCSE results day, however, the wardens get their revenge.

Because on results day, the milfs accompany their beloved kids into the school, leaving their equally beloved cars unattended for at least half an hour. With nervous hopes of Oxbridge and little doctors-and-lawyers-to-be on their minds, they forget all about parking tickets, and generally overlook the fact that even the legal parking spots don't become legal until 8.30 am. 

Enter Lurch, who has been lurking in Costa just around the corner. Behind him waddles his faithful accomplice, a fellow traffic warden with a strikingly authentic Hitler moustache who's so round and short that he'd almost certainly move faster by rolling than walking. Fat Hitler takes the main road, while Lurch heads for the side road, and they immediately begin clicking on their ticketing devices with vengeful glee. It's a co-ordinated strike. They position themselves so that Fat Hitler can keep an eye on the school gates and Lurch can see Fat Hitler, who signals Lurch to quickly slap on a ticket or two and then slip away when parents start to emerge from the gates.

Meanwhile, the residents flock onto their doorsteps with morning cups of tea, to watch "The Great Ticketing" with smug satisfaction.

Inevitably this leads to the occasional confrontation, and a couple of years ago I was treated to an especially tasty one. In the red corner, emerging from the school gates in an elegant cream jumper and smart light blue jeans, is one very sexy milf. Mid-to-late thirties. Straight platinum-blonde hair so glossy you'd think it had been styled, coiffed and shampooed in the salon that very morning. She would be described as slim, were it not for the wealthy paunch, cultivated over years of easy living and excellent restaurants, that stretches her cashmere sweater in way that suggest the sweater was bought before that rather indulgent all-inclusive trip to Turkey in Spring. 

Already she looks a bit cross. And though the swell of her tum might suggest that a tad too much breakfast is to blame, the more likely explanation of her bad mood is to be found in the sheepish-looking son who walks beside her, clutching to his chest a set of results papers that doubtless don't foretell a future in the sunlit uplands of Oxford. 

Well, she's about to get a whole lot crosser. For as she turns the corner, who does our well-fed milf find standing beside her beloved BMW 6 series?

Yes, there he is. In the blue corner, wearing a baggy blue traffic warden's outfit, and clocking in a good fifty pound weight disadvantage, it's Lurch himself. A look of shock comes onto his face as he spots the approaching parent. Where was the signal?! Fat Hitler has withdrawn to Costa for a snack, leaving his ally cornered.

Seconds out... Round one.

And it's the blonde who starts on the front foot. With a wail of rage, she power waddles over to her opponent. But with her excess pounds and tight outfit, it takes her a while. Long enough for Lurch to slap a fat red penalty notice on the windscreen. By the time blondie reaches him she's plum-faced with fury and visibly panting from the unfamiliar exertion, but just as I think she's blown herself out, she manages to unleash a wonderful finger-jabbing tirade at Lurch that makes her plump jelly belly wobble deliciously, before turning her ire on a scraggly looking local resident who's emerged onto her doorstep and let out a mocking cackle at the sight of this rich bitch getting her comeuppance.

I'll leave it there, as I still plan to turn what transpired after that into a full story (with some imaginative embellishments and developments, naturally) but hopefully that gives a bit of flavour. It certainly brightened an otherwise boring day for me at the time. 😊