414. Safari Park
© Bruce Goodman 28 November 2014
Mrs Penelope Park was maybe in her mid-fifties. A little too much make-up. A little too much bling perhaps. A little too young possibly in her choice of clothes. Not that you could say she was mutton dressed as lamb; more of a hogget or a two-tooth. For those who are unfamiliar with ovine terminology, a hogget is a one year old and a two-tooth is getting on for two years and with a couple of front teeth.
Staff at the local supermarket referred to Penelope as “Safari”. Safari Park. Not that she shopped there; she simply “occupied” the car park. This was her recreation; her obsession…
She would sit in her car with the driver’s door wide open and the hand brake on. She would hail any gentleman of any age and say “I can’t seem to release the hand brake. It seems to be jammed.” All, being the gentlemen they were, would reach across Safari’s lap to the hand brake between the two seats.
“Thank you,” she would always gush. “Thank you.” The thanks wasn’t for releasing the hand brake. It was for being handsome and reaching across her seated anatomy.
When she tried it on the local black-suited, clerical-collared vicar, the entire supermarket staff stopped to watch through the window.