Parking. It’s my nemesis. My archenemy. The Moriarty to my Sherlock. The Lex Luther to my Superman. The Torvill to my Dean. We simply don’t get on. And whilst I despise car parking generally, I am especially averse to parking anywhere in the immediate north of the city. Especially Fitzroy, where the hipsters roam and beard wax is in plentiful supply. In Fitzroy, they treat parking like something requiring punishment and go out of their way to make it as difficult as possible.
Continue reading “When A Meter Has Your Measure – Tales from the Hipster Zone”