Parking Mad

Our has-been, once-was neighbour- I never knew him to park properly. We have since, mercifully, left behind his crooked-eyed, wobbly sense of direction and most extraordinary failure to conquer the luminous lines of the emptiest car park.
At first I spared the fellow scant few thoughts on Moving Day. I was too busy, awaiting the enormous truck that would sail in like a fine white horse to rescue two dismals in distress and hasten the few sticks of furniture to California.
At length the vehicle drew near, turned into the driveway and squeezed, with the necessary overlap, into one and a half parking spaces.
Our neighbour, on his way to work that morning, thumped downstairs, noted the disturbance and tried to guess what it was all about.
Who was moving? In or out? And why? To where- or from whence they came?
So many queries, so little time. He swivelled his head a number of times, eyes darting here and there- but he found no clues. He hesitated, frowned, gazed up at certain windows, shuffled with measured slowness to his own pitifully-angled car, certain in the knowledge that all would be over and done by the time he returned.
From the living room window I read it all, the curiosity and confusion, the desire to know the news.
I turned to Spouse.
"He wants to know who's moving," I said with unrestrained glee. "Look- he's annoyed he has to go to work and miss all the gossip."
"No," murmured Spouse solemnly. "I think he's just wondering who on earth is worse at parking than he is."
Aye, the fellow stole our space more often than not; but he never took Spouse's canny wit.