Nothing complicated. Just a pleasant Sunday lunch at Ye OldeKings Head in Santa Monica.

What could possibly go wrong?

Vanessa, the twins, Pumpkin and I piled into the car for what Google optimistically suggested would be about a 40-minute drive.

Google had apparently never driven to Santa Monica on a Sunday.

After heavy traffic, a missed exit and several increasingly irritated discussions about whose fault the missed exit was, we finally arrived.

Miraculously, we found a handicapped space in an official parking lot, displayed my placard, paid our discounted parking fee in advance and congratulated ourselves on having successfully completed Phase One of the expedition.

Lunch was lovely.

A proper British Sunday roast, followed by rhubarb crumble and custard.

For a brief, beautiful moment, all was right with the world.

Then we stepped outside.

Next door was the British shop, so Vanessa and the twins went in to stock up on chocolates and other essential imported provisions while I waited outside with Pumpkin.

That was when I noticed a man walking towards us, mumbling to himself.

His trousers appeared to have given up.

They were hanging somewhere around the southern hemisphere of his anatomy and, as he shuffled past, I found myself silently praying:

Please keep walking. Please keep walking. Please don’t let the children come out now.

Thankfully, he continued down the street.

Unfortunately, so did his trousers.

Eventually Vanessa and the twins emerged from the shop carrying enough British chocolate to survive a small international crisis.

Time to go home.

We crossed the street towards the parking garage.

And there, beside a tree, was a woman.

Squatting.

With her entire bare bottom on display.

At first my brain refused to process what my eyes were telling it.

Then it became horribly clear.

She was going to the bathroom.

Right there.

In broad daylight.

In front of passing pedestrians.

And just when we thought the performance was over, she proceeded to wipe herself, apparently completely unconcerned that Santa Monica had become her personal bathroom.

At this point we grabbed the children and hurried across the street like refugees fleeing a disaster zone.

“KEEP WALKING! DON’T LOOK!”

After witnessing more bare bottoms in ten minutes than I had planned to see for the remainder of 2026, I was enormously relieved to reach the parking lot.

There was our car.

And standing beside it was a police officer approximately 6’6” tall.

He was writing us a ticket.

Actually, he had already written one.

He was now writing another one.

Surely there had been some mistake?

We had parked legally.

We had paid.

We had a handicapped placard.

The officer looked at the placard.

“Ma’am, this placard has been reported lost or stolen.”

Oh.

Then I remembered.

Last year I had misplaced my handicapped placard and reported it missing. They sent me a replacement.

Later, I found the original.

And, in the sort of innocent logic that makes perfect sense until you are confronted by a 6’6” police officer, I thought:

Oh good. Now I have two.

Apparently, the State of California does not share this philosophy.

The officer very “kindly” tore up the first ticket.

The second one?

$363.

I could pay it.

Or contest it.

By this stage I was considering asking whether Santa Monica accepted rhubarb crumble as legal tender.

We finally made it home.

William is now in time-out for using bad language.

Pumpkin is lying around looking distinctly gassy after spending lunch accepting Sunday-roast donations from everyone under the table.

And I am sitting here doing the financial reckoning:

Sunday lunch: $120+

Gasoline: $75

Parking ticket: $363

British chocolates: God knows.

Seeing two complete strangers’ bare bottoms before 3 p.m.: Unfortunately priceless.

So now I am asking myself the obvious question:

Was it worth leaving the house?

Next Sunday we’re staying home.

I’m making sandwiches.

And nobody is allowed to take their trousers off!

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