Ah now, gather round mun, because if there’s two things guaranteed to boil the kettle of my soul, it’s traffic and parking.
Not just a mild simmer either, I’m talking full-on, lid-rattling, whistle screaming chaos like Mam’s cooker on a Sunday when the leeks have betrayed her again.
You ever try parking in town these days?
You’d swear the spaces are playing hide and seek.
There I am, doing laps like I’m training for the Welsh Grand Prix, waving politely at the same confused pensioner every third circuit, until, oh joy! a space appears.
Only it’s tighter than a sheep gate in January and comes with a ticket machine that demands your life story, three passwords, and possibly your first-born.
And what do you get for your trouble?
A parking fine slapped on your windscreen quicker than you can say “I was only gone two minutes, butt!”
Honestly, it feels less like a penalty and more like daylight robbery with a clipboard.
Somewhere there’s a council office with a big red button labelled “Fine ‘Em Again,” and I’m convinced they take turns pressing it for fun.
Now don’t get me started on town car parks.
Prices going up faster than a choir note in chapel, while half the shops are sitting emptier than a rugby pub when Wales loses.
It’s like the councils looked at struggling high streets and thought, “You know what would help here? Let’s charge people MORE to visit.”
Genius. Absolute genius. Next they’ll be charging us for breathing near a bakery window.
These poor local businesses, family shops, cafés that know your order before you sit down, places that’ve been there since before colour telly, are scrapping like seagulls over chips just to survive.
And what do we do? Stick up a financial “Keep Out” sign and act surprised when folks head off to retail parks where parking is free and the only stress is choosing between Greggs or . . . Greggs again.
So here’s a cheeky thought, right: before anyone’s allowed near a council seat, a parliament bench, or the Senedd, how about they pass a proper test in business, marketing, and basic common sense?
Nothing fancy, just enough to know that if you charge people a fortune to park, they might . . . I don’t know . . . not come?
Because I’ve had chats, many chats, with local decision-makers, and I’ll be honest, some of them couldn’t run a raffle in a pub with only three tickets sold.
Lovely people, mind.
But understanding how a small town economy ticks? About as likely as a sheep doing your tax return.
If we want our money staying local, buying coffee from Dai, bread from Sian, and questionable DIY supplies from that one shop that sells everything and nothing, we need towns that feel alive. Not ghost towns where the only movement is tumbleweed and a parking warden lurking behind a lamppost like a ninja.
Otherwise, we’ll all end up spending our cash out on the big roads, stuck in traffic, which, as previously mentioned, I loathe with the fiery passion of a dragon denied its tea.
Anyway. Rant over. For now.
Here’s hoping for a future where parking doesn’t require a bank loan, town centres buzz again, and traffic jams are just something we tell the grandchildren about, right after we finally find a parking space.
. . . .still looking, by the way.