The valet parking man at Gatwick climbed out of my car with an expression that suggested he’d just driven a Panzer at the Russian border as opposed to bringing a very underpowered VW Polo around from the car park. ‘Madam,’ he began, unsteadily. ‘I need to have a word with you about the state of your car.’
I apologised. My Polo is an abysmal state. Empty coffee cups, paper napkins, crinkled bags that once contained sandwiches or doughnuts, plastic water bottles, 58 hair ties, decaying dog biscuits and poo bags (albeit unused) all litter the floor.
It’s also disgracefully muddy because Dennis doesn’t go in the boot. He either sits beside me in the front, or lies along the back seat as if I am his chauffeur and he is a debutante who’s overdone it at The 400. He has a seatbelt because it’s a £5,000 fine if your dog is allowed to roam around your car unrestrained. But still, his paws have caused further mess.
I apologised to the man again and explained that I was soon to hand this car back because it was leased. ‘I’m going to take it to a valet service near me,’ I added, lest he think I’d attempt to return the car in its current state.
‘The poor buggers will need all day,’ he replied.
