“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, I live at number 18. It appears your car has been clamped”, said the young lady I’d never met.

I look at my watch. It’s 10:25am on Saturday 1st April. April Fools Day.

“Fuck off, did Fat Jim put you up to this?” I respond wondering how Fat Jim knows any young ladies.

“Excuse me?”, she blushed.

“Did that fat bastard get you to tell me that my car had been clamped as part of some elaborate, yet ill conceived, April Fools joke?”

“Er, no. I don’t know a Fat Jim. I just saw your flat number on the permit of the clamped car and thought I’d let you know. At least you can sort it out now before you need to drive anywhere.”

“Oh. Right. Thanks” I blush in return.

I close the door chastising myself that I should’ve realised Fat Jim couldn’t have known a young lady like that. I also wonder if telling a neighbour you’ve never met to “Fuck off” is the best way of ingratiating yourself.

Fucking clampers. They’re the scum of the earth. They frequently trawl our private parking looking for someone to clamp much like Fat Jim trawls nightclub dancefloors at 1:55am looking for ladies who’ve had one too many Lambrini’s. Everyone gets a thorough inspection and any sign of weakness is ruthlessly exploited.

I go to my car. It’s not clamped. Fucking Fat Jim and his funny jokes. Though obviously pleased, I’m also a little disappointed he’s got one over me. I’m wondering how much he must have paid the young lady and start considering the logistics around letting all his tyres down when I notice my flatmate’s car has been clamped. I chuckle to myself.

He’s having breakfast when I return to the flat.

“Your cars been clamped”

“Fuck off Angry, I’m not falling for that on April Fools Day”

“OK. You got me”

It’ll be much more fun watching him find out later.

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