I’m having lunch with my agent – an infrequent occurrence, because neither of us ever has any good news for the other. This lunch is no different.
“Sorry to make you come all this way,” she says, “but I had to be near the office today.” She hints at some complex contractual negotiations involving an author for whom, I suspect, she always has good news.
“Did you come on the tube?” she says. “Did it take for ever?”
“I drove, actually,” I say. “Because I have an electric car.”
People sometimes ask why I bought an electric car. What did I want from it? To save money? To help the environment? To guard myself against future fuel shortages, or toxic emissions, or both?
The truth is: I wanted a medal. I wanted people to see the little green rectangle on my number plate and think: there goes a great guy, doing his best; let’s slow down and give him plenty of room to pull into our lane.
This does not happen. The official honours bestowed on electric car owners are actually pretty paltry: a discount on the London congestion charge and a slightly abbreviated MOT test. And you get no credit for being the green part of a traffic jam.
A few days earlier my wife and I had been invited to have lunch with the older one and his girlfriend, on the other side of town. In the morning, my wife declares that she will drive.
Traffic is light on the way, and we arrive ahead of schedule. There is, however, absolutely nowhere to park. Every available space is occupied.
On a second trawl through the neighbourhood a sudden gap appears ahead of us. “What about there?” my wife says, slowing down. I look up at the sign as we pass.
“It’s for electric cars only,” I say. “Hey, wait! That’s us!”
“But wait,” I say. “It’s actually a charging point. You have to be actively charging the car while you’re in it.”
“Fine, we’ll do that then,” she says. “It can’t be more expensive than parking.”
“But it’s broken,” I say. “The outlet thing is all taped up.”
“Well, it’s not our fault it doesn’t work, is it?” she says, pulling in.
I get out of the car and look at the sign and the broken plug, and my wife.
“I think that if I were a parking warden, I would love to give this car a ticket.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” my wife says, choosing, on this occasion, to shoot the messenger.
We make two more wide circles of the area, varying the route slightly each time until we are a little lost.
“There!” my wife says, pointing. “What’s wrong with that one?”
“It’s also for electric cars,” I say.
Behind us a man in a car beeps, his impatience unmodulated by the green band on our number plate. My wife pulls over to let him pass. I have to open my door to examine the plug situation more closely.
“It appears to be operable,” I say, leaning out for a better look.
“Do we have the right cable?” she says.
“Yeah, but our socket’s on the other side,” I say. “It won’t reach unless we’re facing the other way.”
“That’s fine, I can turn around,” she says.
“And also,” I say, craning my neck, “this particular charging point seems to be part of a local scheme. Like, you need a special parking permit from the borough to even use it.”
“Get out of the car,” my wife says.
“Sorry, but I am just reading what it …”
I stand up and shut the door. My wife reverses down the road, leaving me on the pavement. So, I think. This is how it ends.
But it turns out my wife has noticed that the man who beeped at us had just vacated a parking space half a dozen car lengths back.
“That was lucky,” she says, all smiles now.
Two days later a waitress comes to the table, and my agent and I order.
“So,” I say. “If you get the right tariff and you only charge at night, it is a lot cheaper. But don’t expect special treatment. There’s no medal.”
“I think we’ve had enough about electric cars now,” my agent says.
A brief silence follows – neither of us willing, for the moment, to be the first bearer of bad news.
