The Smurfs Ruined My Life

(or ‘Things that Freak Me Out’ – Part Two)

I want to tell a tale of woe that really isn’t funny.

It involves The Smurfs, a boy, a mum and lots and lots of money.

To give a bit of background, we’d been on our hols to France

Borrowing a roof box for the car; our accountant’s, just by chance.

The holiday in Brittany was not what you’d call a great success;

It was freezing cold and poured it down for two weeks more or less.

The roof box, however, had served us well and with it we’d been cautious;

It was a very coveted thing; thoughts of damaging it made us nauseous.

Two days after we got back (we were returning the box that fateful day)

I took our eldest to see The Smurfs (I’d promised when we were away).

As we emerged from the cinema, blinking in the bright daylight,

I suggested we drive into town to McDonald’s for a fast food bite.

Amused we were at those Smurfs and Gargamel, the little scamp,

We laughed how he shouted ‘Are you dead?’ whilst traversing the car park ramp.

J reminisced about his favourite bits as the button for a ticket I pressed…

(No doubt you can guess the next bit but I’m still going to tell you the rest).

I was distracted by the sheer joy of my child, that is my only excuse

As I took my ticket and continued driving under the restricted height roof.

I saw a spray of sparks fly out, I heard a sickening crunch,

As I scraped along the concrete and lost any appetite I’d had for lunch.

My hysterical wailing steadily increased and added to the cacophony,

Reaching open air I wished the ground would open up and swallow me.

The roof box we had borrowed, previously in a state only described as ‘pristine’,

Was cracked beyond recognition along both sides; I feared I may soil my jeans.

Marring the once shiny silver surface streaked trails of bright yellow paint;

I took deep breaths and steadied myself for fear that I would faint.

Then, (as if that wasn’t bad enough), behind us cars started to queue

To beep their horns for me to move; paralysed, I knew not what to do.

I couldn’t go back under cover for the roof box once more to wreck

But I had to get out of the way quickly; a vein started to pulse in my neck.

I spent the next fifteen minutes, driving around and reversing,

Away from bastard restricted height ceilings, alternating between crying and cursing.

I finally pulled into a bay that was strictly for the disabled;

I figured I qualified; by now I was, without a doubt, mentally unstable.

With shaking hands and pounding heart I finally phoned my hubby.

He couldn’t tell what I was saying though; I was dribbling snot and blubbery.

When he finally managed to decipher my garbled and hysterical screeching,

He spent ten minutes calming me down. ‘But you’re both safe!’ he kept beseeching.

Able finally to function without thinking about toilet-related slips,

I took my son to Maccy D’s where he chomped on a Big Mac and chips.

He scoffed and I tried not to puke as we returned to the scene of the crime.

We got in the car with roof box hanging and drove to exit, taking our time.

I willed the barrier to open, from this multi-storey I must get the hell away,

But fate hadn’t finished having a laugh; the car park attendant wanted his say.

‘Are you the lady with the roof box?’ he enquired kindly, over the speakerphone.

‘I was’, I answered tearfully.  ‘Now I just want to go hooooooomme!’

‘You OK madam?’ he asked of me.  ‘We just need to take some details.’

‘Well, I’m not reversing!  So come to me!’ were my childish answering wails.

‘OK, love’, he replied, sensing a woman clearly unhinged. ‘Would you like a brew?’

‘No th-th-thank you,’ I sobbed shakily and a shuddering breath I drew.

I somehow managed to drive us home, attracting many a point and stare.

You’d think a roof box squashed to half its height was something very rare.

Once home and when hubby stopped laughing (it took him quite a while)

We found a replacement box to collect (my husband drove this time).

Then we called round to our accountant’s house (by now I was sh***ing bricks)

But he and his wife were only sorry the situation was so expensive to fix.

Three hundred quid later, a friendship intact and a new roof box ended this strife.

But take note my lovely readers; those cute blue Smurfs can ruin your f***ing life.

(N.B. NOW can you understand why I’ve developed a phobia of multi-storey car parks?)