HAVING read the recent letter from Monica Conlan about selfish parking – though I admit that I don’t recall reading the one she was responding to – I too get extremely irate when I see perfectly able-bodied people parking in places reserved for those less fortunate.

Like her, I have no problem with extra-wide spaces in car parks being designated for mothers with young children, although I’d have thought that the definition of young in this case should relate to whether the child is being pushed along in a pushchair. (Herself, reading this over my shoulder, tells me they are now called buggies).

What I can’t stand are those who abuse the disabled parking spaces. I learned the hard way – not through being booked but because a mate of mine whose wife is a wheelchair user saw me parking on such a space one evening, wound down his window and ever so politely reminded me that people who are entitled to use those designated areas do so 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

As he quite rightly said, his wife is disabled all the time and not just during what might be termed disc parking hours.

All I could do in response to his gentle admonition was hold my hands in the air, admit that I hadn’t thought of it in that light, and drive to the nearest car park, where – as Herself succinctly put it – I should have gone in the first place.

I can recall many years ago passing the time of day with my cousin who was then in the States police. We were in Vine Street, near the back door of what used to be Maine’s the jeweller, when the driver of this dirty great British Rail pantechnicon – which were famed for their manoeuvrability – hooted at my cousin and pointed out the difficulty he was having getting into Vine Street because a Mini was parked too close to the corner.

With all the petty rules and regulations which seem to hamper police officers from making unorthodox but sensible decisions, it couldn’t happen these days but my cousin opened the driver’s side door, released the handbrake and motioned to me to help push the car a few yards up the road.

Then, with a fair amount of to-ing and fro-ing, he helped the British Rail driver into Vine Street. That done, and with the sort of sigh that indicated that his heart wasn’t really in it, he got the notebook out – no tickets on the windscreen in those days – and took down the car number.

As he was doing it, the driver returned. She was, as she made clear, the wife of an extremely well known parish Constable. She demanded to know if he was booking her – I’d have been tempted to tell her that I was making out my Christmas card list – and when he told her he was, she responded by saying that if her husband had anything to do with it, no fine would be paid.

How he responded so politely I’ll never know – he used to get over-excited when we were playing ha’penny nap – but he simply said that he was reporting her for obstruction rather than simply parking too close to a corner and added that he would quote her comments verbatim when he submitted his report.

Polite almost, but not quite, to the point of rudeness is how his treatment of her would best be described. It was a real joy to behold.

As an important afterthought, I’ll just add that, bearing in mind the lesson I learned about parking on a disabled driver’s space, we’ll all be thronging into town for the annual exchange of mostly unwanted Christmas trash quite soon. Don’t forget that disabled drivers use their designated spaces for evening shopping as well as during the day.

Still on the theme of letters – and just to let that lot in the Big House settle down after the elections before I heap either praise or criticism on their antics – I doubt that anyone could be other than impressed by the recent letter from Elizabeth Leech, the mother of a Grainville School pupil.

She outlined how her son’s initial difficulties at the school had been addressed – he had previously been in a very small class (I presume in the United Kingdom) and so the Grainville environment was clearly a bit overwhelming.

I won’t go into all the details but I was extremely impressed by her closing paragraph, and I quote: ‘It saddens me that as a society we seem to be obsessed with having our children achieve A*s. I believe all effort should be acknowledged and each child encouraged to be the best they can be, in all aspects of their lives, not just academic. That’s what my son received from his time at Grainville and I’m very grateful that he had the opportunity to attend such an holistic educational facility.’

No one who talks to parents of children of both primary and secondary school age can fail to have noticed how the reputation of schools for both age groups seems to run in cycles – the ones which were flavour of the month a few years ago are now almost Dickensian, and so on.

Grainville is no exception to the rule, for it’s not that long ago that I was talking to parents who were trying to move heaven and earth – and even considering moving house – because they were in the ‘wrong’ catchment area.

It’s just nice when I can repeat some obviously very genuine praise, and particularly so when that particular school has also enhanced its, and the Island’s, reputation in a recent first aid competition.

And finally . . . Surprise, surprise yet again. Some of the stories run by the national newspapers at the time of the Haut de la Garenne investigation were – in the words of Guardian journalist Nick Davies to the Leveson Inquiry – ‘a load of crap’. One day I’m going to read a national and learn something that’s true.