Marching towards the woman who had just unlocked her cherry red Fiat 500, I looked her straight in the eye. ‘Are you disabled?’ I demanded. ‘No,’ came the curt reply.
There was zero shame and certainly no apology – no wonder I could feel a red mist descending.
I’d just driven for three hours to check into a hotel with my husband, Pascal, 65. Not on a jolly but so he could attend a vital hospital appointment the following morning.
We’d arrived to find four disabled parking spaces, all taken, and yet only one vehicle displaying a disabled badge.
It had taken me a
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