By Angela Garwood
A few months ago, on one sunny Saturday, our car registration plates were stolen.
I was in London when Joel messaged me a photo of our sad little car, reg-plateless.
Joel reported the crime and we expected a slew of speeding tickets and other fines through the post.
But nothing came.
A friend mentioned that the reason people steal car reg plates is to use them to steal petrol. But once again; nothing. Until this week.
It was another sunny Saturday and I was running late. Queues at the petrol station meant some guesswork as to which pump would be quickest. Four or six.
I went for six, the driver was already inside, hopefully paying. Of course, she came out last having done half a food shop. Should have gone with four.
I was standing outside my car, by the nozzles, ready to fill up my tank when I heard:
“Could number six please come inside..”
It dawned on me that I was in fact number six, but their request was muffled and I wanted to be sure before galloping inside. I peered in and pointed at my ear for them to repeat themselves.
“Could number six please come inside..” bellowed across the forecourt, this time loud and clear. I felt the eyes of other drivers land on me and instantly came to loathe the petrol station speakerphone and whoever was using it.
I marched inside to be met with a queue of people and a friendly face behind the till, pointing to a screen with my car on it.
“We’ve had to call you in because your car has been flagged on our system, some fuel was stolen using your reg plates.” He said.
“REALLY. That’s interesting. They were STOLEN a few months ago, so that makes sense.”
I said, rage coursing through my veins as though the man behind the till was the criminal himself (or her, we don’t know). I was both embarrassed and angry to have been summoned in like a child being sent to the headmaster’s office.
“We know it wasn’t you as it was a different vehicle,” he said, as I felt my blood pressure go back to normal.
“Well, you do look like a felon,” The man at the front of a long line of staring customers joked.
“Oh, I am, a well-known criminal!” I said, unamused and forcing a smile before making a swift exit.
I pumped more unleaded petrol into my car than planned and made my way back inside, where I felt the need to apologise to the well-mannered staff member for being grumpy.
“It’s okay, I wasn’t having a go at you…” He said.
He very much wasn’t, he couldn’t have handled the situation with more grace, he was calm and polite throughout. Unlike myself.
“When did it happen? What kind of car was it?” I enquired, though I didn’t want to know the answers to either of these questions.
A blue Ford Fiesta. Not that that solves anything.
“You don’t really look like a felon,” The same man shouted from his car to mine as I was about to leave.
“It’s okay,” I found myself shouting back jovially, relieved I could finally leave petrol pump six.
The best part of this whole affair came when I recounted the tale to my dad that afternoon.
“Dad these people come and steal your reg plates, then they use those to steal petrol.”
He paused, thoughtful for a moment.
“Well, it is, rather clever…” he said, practically smiling up at me.
Anegla blogs at The Colourful Kind
