Hater Read Free Page A

dialled 2300 instead of 3200. I'll try and transfer you. If you get cut-off just dial 1000 and that'll take you through to the main exchange…'
    I'm suddenly distracted and my voice trails away as the front door flies open. I instinctively move back on my chair, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and whoever it is who's about to come storming into the building. I finish the phone call and allow myself to relax slightly when I see the front wheels of a child's pushchair being forced through the door. The pushchair is jammed in the doorway and I get up to help. A short, rain-soaked woman in a green and purple anorak enters Reception. As well as the child in the pushchair (which is hidden from view by a heavy plastic rain-cover) two more small children follow her inside. The bedraggled family stand in the middle of the Reception area and drip water onto the grubby marble-effect floor. The woman seems harassed and is pre-occupied with her kids. She snaps at the tallest child, telling him that 'Mummy has a problem to sort out with this man, then we'll get you back home for something to eat.'
    She takes off her hood and I can see that she's in her late thirties or early forties. She's plain looking and her large, round, rain-splashed glasses are steaming up. Her face is flushed red and there are dribbles of rainwater dripping off the end of her nose. She doesn't make eye contact with me. She slams her handbag down on the desk and begins searching through it. She stops for a moment to lift the rain-cover (which is also beginning to steam up with condensation) and checks on her baby who seems to be sleeping. She returns her attention to the contents of her handbag and I make my way back around to the other side of the counter.
    'Can I help you?' I ask cautiously, deciding that it's about time I offered. She glares at me over the rim of her glasses. This woman has an attitude, I can sense it. She's making me feel uncomfortable. I know I'm in for a hard time.
    'Wait a minute,' she snaps, talking to me as if I'm one of her kids. She takes a packet of tissues out of her bag and passes one to one of the children at her feet who keeps wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. 'Blow,' she orders sternly, shoving the tissue into the middle of the kid's face. The child doesn't argue.
    I glance up at the clock. Four fifty-seven. Doesn't look like I'll be getting the early train home tonight.
    'I parked my car at Leftbank Place for five minutes while I took my eldest son to the toilet,' she begins as she repacks her bag. No time for niceties, she's straight into her complaint. 'In those five minutes my car was clamped. Now I know that I shouldn't have been parked there, but it was only for five minutes and I was only there because it was absolutely necessary. I want to speak to someone who has the authority to sort this out and I want to speak to them now. I want that clamp removed from my car so I can get my children home.'
    I clear my throat and get ready to try and respond. Suddenly my mouth is dry and my tongue feels twice its normal size. It had to be Leftbank Place, didn't it. It's an area of waste ground just ten minutes walk from our office. Sometimes it feels like just about every other car that's clamped in this town is clamped at Leftbank Place. The enforcement team who cover that area are notorious. Someone told me they're on some kind of performance-related pay scheme - the more cars they clamp each week, the more they get paid. I don't know whether or not that's true but it doesn't help me now. I know I have no choice but to give this woman a stock response from procedures. I also know that she's not going to like it.
    'Madam,' I begin, tensing up in anticipation of her reaction, 'Leftbank Place is a strictly no parking area. The council…'
    She doesn't give me chance to get any further.
    'I'll tell you about the council,' she yells, her voice suddenly uncomfortably loud. 'This bloody council needs to spend