I got such a skrik the other day. I always knew it would happen, but I was still not prepared for it when it did. I recently bought one of those lumpy seven-seater cars for my family, so we can all fit comfortably on road trips.
Last week, I went to town and ended up looking for parking in Long Street. I spotted an empty bay and quickly slipped in.
As I came to a stop, I heard my back door being opened with a purpose and saw someone jumping into the back seat. Without even looking at me, he cheerfully said: “Hi, I’m Stanley, let’s go!”
The next split second seemed like an eternity, as he looked at me questioningly, probably wondering why I was staring at him instead of driving.
I let out a fyn poepie, half wondering how I had managed to let myself get hijacked by a skinny white hipster with a foreign accent, before it hit me.
“This is a private vehicle,” I eventually said with half a smile. He was red in the face, the only way European tourists can, apologised for thinking I was his Uber taxi and returned to the pavement, staring at his phone in embarrassment.
Looks like my seven-seater is going to be a blessing and curse.