I’m not very often left to make travel arrangements. I used to be handed a postcode and plonked in the driving seat as designated driver but since I succumbed to exhaustion and was forced to hand over the wheel to The Mother on our last trip to France, I can’t even claim that honour any more.

“I drove most of the way to the tunnel and almost all the way to the Loire because Daughter Number One fell asleep,” announced The Mother to anyone who would listen when we returned.

So it was partly to prove the point that I could stay awake for a whole journey that I opted to take my car when we headed to Liverpool last weekend to catch up with some friends and see a production they were involved with.

“I can’t drive your car if you get tired because I’m apparently too ancient to go on your insurance,” said The Mother when I told her of my decision.

“I know” I replied. “And since you got a speeding ticket on our last journey up north it’s probably a good thing!” I added under my breath.

With me firmly in the driving seat it was also up to me to book the car park and finding one right next to our hotel I logged into the website to discover it offered ‘VIP reserved parking’. Noting that it was ‘conveniently located on the car park’s entry level’ without hesitation I coughed up the extra £9 a day.

“It’ll make life easier,” I said to the housemate as I paid the bill. “You still can’t carry anything because of your arm so I end up like a beast of burden laden with bags and coats and goodness knows what while still watching you and The Mother in case you fall!”

Finally pulling into the car park on Saturday afternoon after a happily uneventful trip, I headed for the ‘reserved parking’ area to find not a single space set aside for our car-full of VIPs!

“That’s torn it,” chuckled The Mother as I ranted my way around the ramps to the upper levels. “I thought she’d been a bit calm and happy on the drive up!”

After we eventually found a parking space on the top floor and made our way down in the lift, into the hotel and negotiated the new fangled self check in process I penned a sternly word email to the car park company.

“Booking a reserved space doesn’t mean there’ll be a space there for you to park in,” came the reply.

“No,” I sent back. “That is exactly what it does mean. In fact it is the exact definition of what booking a reserved space means. That when you arrive there will be a space there for you. Preferably with your name on in big gold letters!”

“You can have your money back if you like,” came the response.

“Of course I’d like,” I replied. “In what world wouldn’t I like to have my money back for something I haven’t actually had?” I asked.

“Thank you for parking with us,” came the response.

The housemate confiscated my phone before I could reply. It was probably for the best…