Britain is broken but the parking tickets keep coming
I live on a road where parking is forbidden. This has not stopped any of us from needing cars. Instead, we crowd each evening into the small cul-de-sac opposite, where ten vehicles can park legally, and 15 can park optimistically. The sign is unambiguous: ‘Three hours. No return within two.’ Most days I manage to comply. Some days I even set an alarm. The cruelty is that nothing happens for ages. Weeks pass. Months. You begin to suspect you have cracked the system or even that the sign is entirely ornamental, the sort of bluff recognisable to anyone familiar with the steady arrival of ‘Final’ notices. Then, without warning, that little yellow envelope appears on
