This morning, Anna and I carefully planned our schedules (yes, even of a Sunday) so that we could consolidate errands that required a (much-hated, in principle if not in the particular) car. Much to our chagrin, we returned from some on-foot errands to find the driveway blocked by about a foot of gleaming white bumper. Anna looked desparingly at the car and realised that we could not back out unless the car moved (well, we could back out slowly enough to push the car into the road, and scrape -- literally! -- past: that is an approach more suited to ye poopmobile, however). Without hesitation, I called the DPT, and they arrived within minutes. About an hour later, the car had been tagged and was being towed, and we were just backing out when an unhappy young woman sat down on the stoop next to our and asked if we had towed her car. Beside her was a wailing four-year-old. I said yes, and, under prohibition against engaging people in fights, verbal or otherwise, kept my mouth shut. She walked over as we backed out and apologised, and Anna felt remorse.
Slightly exasperated with our calling the dpt and quite probably ruining someone's day -- someone with a kid to contend with while in the painful process of retrieving a car from the pound --, Anna tried to balance our convenience against hers. She figures that it is easier to tow someone argumentative and volatile than a nice mother, but I suggested that regardless of whoever we were towing, they had taken their chances in blocking the driveway.
The charm of calling for a blocked-driveway tow has already worn off, and I feel less as though I am acting territorial and more like I just want to finish my errands. Even when the car was going up on the dolly (it was a front-wheel drive, towed from the rear -- ouch), I was in the workshop banging on the kogswell and paying little attention to the hulabaloo outside.
I'm calling the DPT Engineering office tomorrow, again, to find out when we can have the kerb painted in official DPT Red.