Elle Vampa

It’s Saturday evening, 9pm. And I’m not having a nightmare; I’m living a nightmare.

What was supposed to be a smooth ending to a much enjoyed movie night (nothing beats Jason Statham fighting off giant prehistoric sharks and octopi – you’re welcome for the spoil), has turned into pure mayhem.

The parking garage is holding me hostage.

The cinema sold me a parking ticket which I thought they said was “for the whole day.”

Only in this city, far far from home, “a whole day” apparently only lasts for five hours.

And I’ve been away for five and a half.

The parking machine keeps telling me I have to pay a little extra money before it’ll open its doors to freedom, but it won’t accept my debit card and there are no money slots. Plus the telephone button is useless, considering it’s late and everyone’s gone home.

Frustrated, I reverse my car (thank goodness I’m the only prisoner at the moment), and park it in a little cove between the entrance and the exit, unblocking the latter.

I run over to the ticket machines, where the sequel to the nightmare ensues: not only does an unexpected wave of random people suddenly surge in and cut my way to paying my ransom, the machine won’t take my card.

How the BLEEP do I get out of here!??

I desperately try scanning my unscannable debit card (so much for hating technology and blocking that option as soon as it was installed) until the answer hits me.

And the floor, as my business debit card takes a dive out of my wallet and hits the tiles on which I stand.

My scannable business debit card.

I bleep it, the machine accepts my raised-by-another-50-cents-ransom-for-being-slow and I can finally, FINALLY, make my way home.

Freedom at last.