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HA! Gotcha!
Thought you were about to read something about The Big Apple didn’tcha? But no, instead you have to listen to me ranting on about parking my bike in Central London LOL <– (that last bit to prove to Abigail — oops, sorry, Abby — that I’m hip ‘n’ down with the kids).
One of the problems with dividing a large city like London into multiple boroughs is that the councils of said boroughs all have different ideas about how to run things. Motorcycling is just the one example that happens to affect me most directly, but I’m sure one could find examples of daft and pointless policy differences in most departments.
London local government in general is trying to get people out of their cars and into/onto greener, less-congesting forms of transport: bus, train, bicycle, and yes, the mighty PTW (Powered Two-Wheeler — GovSpeak for motorcycles, scooters and mopeds). In principle that’s great: motorcycles can park for free in many areas where car drivers have to pay, we are exempt from having to pay the Congestion Charge, and we’re now even allowed to use Bus Lanes along with buses, cycles, and taxis — Thank You Boris!
But — and it’s a big but — (“Does my But look big in these leather trousers?”) before we set off we have go online and trawl through countless sites, local government pamphlets, and user forums to try and find out what the local motorcycle parking rules are at our destination. Just because you’re allowed to park in Residents Permits Only bays in Camden doesn’t mean you can do it in Haringey, etc. etc.
A picture paints a thousand words, so:
Confused? Join the club!
Basically tick=good (free) and X=bad (have to pay). You see my dilemma?
What I said earlier about bus lanes is subject to the same vagaries: the new rule only applies to Red Routes (Central London bus lanes). Again once you get out into the other boroughs it’s up to them individually whether to follow suit. AArrggh!
Come on BoJo: whip those boroughs into line and get everyone on the same page!
Still reeling from my last experience in Waitrose car park I went there again the other day.
On the scooter.
This was only the second time I had parked in a barrier-operated car park with the scooter, so I’m still learning the ropes. The first time was at London’s Olympia exhibition halls, and that worked well because not only do they have a distinct policy for motorcycles, they also have a telephone booking line that I could call to get the low-down before I showed up.
At Olympia motorcycles can park for free (this is what I like!). The guy on the phone told me to use the car entrance and instead of taking a ticket to ride around the end of the wooden barrier (there is just enough space to do this). He even told me where the motorcycle spaces were. Great!
At Waitrose it was a very different story. Here they seem to have never heard of motorcycles; the looks I inspired from the staff would have made an alien feel self-conscious. I rode in the (only) entrance and found the usual single-bar wooden barrier and ticket machine. There was no sign anywhere detailing their motorcycle policy, so I repeated the Olympia practice and rode around the end of the barrier without taking a ticket. I cruised around the dingy, low-ceilinged car park looking for the designated motorcycle spaces. There were none, so I asked an attendant who was collecting trolleys. He cast around as if he’d never even come close to contemplating the question before, let alone being asked it, and eventually told me to park “over there in the corner”, indicating a small triangular space by the wall: the difference between the end of the marked bays and the physical space available. I parked up and did my shopping.
When I came out I started fretting about getting out of the car park. The exit barrier has (sometimes) an attendant who physically checks (sometimes) your ticket to make sure it’s validated. I had no ticket, validated or otherwise. Also I had no idea whether the exit barrier had a gap I’d be able to get around, and suddenly I had visions of being stuck at the barrier arguing with the attendant, while a long line of cars formed behind me, honking their horns and scoffing at the nutter on two wheels who’s strayed into the Domain Of The Car. I thought I’d better check the situation out before riding there, so I walked to the exit and asked the attendant how we should deal with the situation.
“What’s your motorcycle policy?”
“Erm, dunno.”
“Well in other places they just let you ride around the barrier. I haven’t got a ticket.”
“Erm. OK then.”
I returned to my bike and rode towards the exit. I started to negogiate the end of the barrier (as we’d agreed), but then he pressed the button to lift it. Whether this was out of courtesy or job protection I’ll never know, but I was out and free.
I think I’m going to persevere with this. I’ll either end up being responsible for Waitrose implementing a nationwide motorcycle parking scheme or as the Finchley Rd Scooter Loony who keeps asking how to get in and out of the same car park.
I’ve been loitering around North London looking at flats for several weeks, actually living in North London since yesterday, and today increased my parking ticket tally by 100%: to two.
London has things called Red Routes. These are main road arteries out of the city that have to be kept clear to keep the massive volumes of traffic moving. However, on some Red Routes there are sections of kerbside where you can stop your car for loading or unloading, for up to twenty minutes. That was fine yesterday morning, when I pulled up outside the Hi-Fi shop to pick up my new home cinema system. But I had to go back this afternoon to exchange a faulty remote control, and made the mistake of leaving the car in the loading zone again.
A couple of minutes after I’d gone in the shop, a police van pulled up in front of my car and two officers got out. They didn’t seem to be paying any attention to my car, but the guy in the shop told me to keep an eye on them so I completed my business quickly and hurried back to the car.
Needless to say the officers did stop because of my parking, and so I spent the next ten minutes being lectured at the side of the road by a policeman about ten years older than I, and ten inches taller. I freely and quickly admitted that, on this occasion, I had not actually been loading, or unloading, but had in fact just been doing a bit of shopping, but he wasn’t about to let me off that easily. Instead I had to hand over my licence and wait by the car while he went back to the van to check me out. I reddened slightly as I felt the people in the nearby cafe looking on, and that feeling didn’t get any better when the officer came back, informed me that the car was indeed mine and that it was insured (“Oh really? Thanks. I had no idea”), and then delivered the second half of his lecture before finally letting me go, ticket in hand.
I drove off, £50 worse off and feeling angry. Angry with myself of course, but it’s much easier to direct your anger at the other party, so I muttered rude names under my breath as I went. Well… you never know… they might have one of those special long range spy microphones, mightn’t they?
