Parking the Car

Like many with Aspergers, I have a strong aversion to parties. Always have, except that when I was younger I realised that without going to parties I’d have no friends and this was, apparently, a bad thing. So, particularly at Christmas, I used to make an effort to go out and socialise.
Alcohol used to help – immensely actually – but when I learnt to drive I realised that I quite liked the freedom to leave when I wanted to, instead of when the designated driver had sobered up. This was usually well into the next morning.
Of course, driving to a party, especially at Christmas, left you open to requests for lifts. I said yes to everybody as that seemed the easiest thing to do, but then regularly found up to a dozen people at a time trying to squeeze into my tiny hatchback.
Driving to one particular Christmas party, I had the usual half dozen passengers all prattling away in the car as I struggled to find the Village Hall where that night’s festivities would be held. This stressed me – more than usual, that is – and I almost missed the entrance to the place, as we hurtled past in a daze of sociability.
I say hurtle but this isn’t strictly true. A half dozen people weighs down a car of that size and it was struggling to move out of third gear all evening. Nevertheless, what I did next was still ill advised.
Noticing the entrance to the Village Hall Car Park rapidly approaching on the right-hand side (and wanting desperately to arrive, leave the people-infested car, and get the evening over with), I swung the wheel hard right. The tyres dug into the asphalt and we lurched towards the entrance.
Except that, unbeknown to me, it wasn’t actually the entrance at all. The real entrance was around the corner on a side road. What I was careering towards was a gap in the row of parked cars that encircled the Village Hall. That wouldn’t have been too bad except that the parking area was sunk from the height of the road by two foot or so, with a concealed vertical drop leading down to it.
Even with the weight of seven people inside, the car launched itself over the drop and sailed into the space beyond. It was then that I discovered something else. When your car has all four tyres in the air, the brakes don’t work, no matter how hard you press. Still, at least my half dozen passengers were now silent.
After a rather graceful arc, my car landed with a sickening crunch and the tyres instantly locked. After an impressive screech and lots of blue smoke we juddered to a halt a good three inches before hitting the brick wall of the Village Hall.
At least we had stopped and, to my delight, the car was still working. With the continuing silence from my passengers I could at last relax and concentrate on selecting a parking space. Realising there was one behind me – the gap I had just flown through - I put the car smoothly into reverse gear and glided backwards.
Safely parked, I looked around at my still silent and now pale-faced passengers, some rubbing their bruised heads, and some looking as if they might throw up at any moment. I smiled demurely and, for some reason that now seems totally superfluous, added: ‘We’ve arrived’.