Twenty-two photographs, twenty-two timestamps, twenty-two mornings.
I’d spent the previous evening reading the local authority’s guidance on parking obstruction. Not skimming it. Reading it, twice, the way I read anything where I want to be completely certain I understand what I’m doing before I do it. I had found the enforcement line number, the criteria for what qualified as an obstruction of residential driveway access, the process for contacting the approved contractor that the council directed complaints to when the criteria were met.
I made a cup of tea.
I looked at Denise’s car, clearly visible through the kitchen window in the flat grey light of early morning.
Then I picked up my phone and called the parking enforcement line.
The thing about living in a semi-detached house on a residential street in a mid-sized English town is that most of the drama that happens there happens in increments so small that you barely notice each one as it occurs. It’s only when you look back at the aggregate that you understand how much ground you’ve lost.
