Observations on street life
"You must have parked it somewhere else," I keep saying stupidly. We both stare at the road outside my flat, as if it will reappear before our eyes. But no, my friend Nick's VW Golf has definitely gone.
I hadn't really thought people still bothered to steal cars. Not VW Golfs, anyway. It seems somehow ridiculous to have one stolen. And when we call the police, they seem to find the theory pretty far-fetched as well. The woman point-blank refuses to entertain it until we have phoned something called Trace, to establish whether the clampers have towed it away.
But it wasn't contravening any laws, I object. She is unmoved. Local authorities must have overtaken hoodies as the nation's number-one car thieves, because obviously more cars get towed than stolen these days. Only not, as it turns out when we call Trace, this one. Nick's black Golf is gone.
The following afternoon, my neighbour P rings the doorbell. P looks like an artist's impression of a hoodie. Occasionally he rings to see if anyone wants to buy an iPod. At other times, he's just calling for a chat. But, being 16, and often stoned, he is forever locking himself out, and this time he wants to come through to vault the back-garden fence into his. Did he hear anything on Saturday night? Yeah, he heard a car alarm. Why do I ask?
P is back 24 hours later. He's been making some calls. The car has been offered for sale to his cousin on a nearby estate. His cousin has told the thieves that the car must unfortunately go back.
After applying some unspecified pressure, P's family has persuaded them to leave it on a side street about a mile away, ready for collection. I give P a hug.
On the way to go and get it with Nick, P tells us that the neighbourhood is currently flush with duplicate master keys for late-model VWs, Audis and Jaguars. He came by an Audi key himself a week ago, and sold it for £500, which . . .
Mid-sentence, P breaks off, and softly curses. He points to a vacant parking bay. The car has gone again.
P calls his cousin. Nick calls the police. Nobody knows anything. We stare at empty tarmac again. Then, suddenly, I think to call Trace. The car is in the Camden car pound, they say, for failing to display a resident's parking permit. It'll be £200 to get it out, the man adds. P literally cannot believe the nerve of these people.
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