• Lauren

An open letter to whoever put this note under my windscreen wiper




First of all, I would like to thank you for your kind note. It was a pleasure to receive after wrangling two children into the car after a fun-filled journey to the supermarket during the witching hour of doom. Some may say it even made my evening. Flowers? Not me. Chocolates? No, indeed. What I really want to receive is a note on a Panadol box. For that, I thank you.


I do , however, have a few questions.


Firstly, how long did you have to rummage around your car for the Panadol box before you found it? I can just imagine you quivering with rage at my parking, sifting through your glove box.


“Old bill? No, that’s got my name on it which would defeat the purpose of a passive-aggressive note! Panadol box? Perfect!”





Unless of course my parking made you literally see spots, which made you reach for the Panadol, at which point you had an epiphany that rivals Archimedes’ eureka moment. Angels sung and bells clanged as you thought of the masterpiece you could scrawl, albeit a masterpiece for my eyes alone. It must have been a disappointment to realise that, in your excitement, you had ripped the box too much to scrawl a weighty tome. In fact, you wouldn’t even have the space to write ‘please’ in all its polite glory, nor include the third ‘.’ that customarily follows a ‘..’ ‘


Tis a shame, indeed. I cry to think of all of the words you could have also added had you had more space. I am sure they would have won a Booker.


Or, did you keep the box especially for such occasions? Were there other cars in the car park with the front of the box under their windscreen wipers? I shudder to think of the wrath that rained down upon the person parked beside me when I arrived, as it was their spatial unawareness that rendered it impossible for me to park correctly. What box was their note written on? Ibuprofen? As my parking would have been perfection otherwise, I hope you at least wrote their note on Panadol Rapid.


Or, had that car driven off into the darkness by the time your arrived, making my car the lone bastion of incompetence, the car that couldn’t keep to the lines when everyone else could? Possibly. I feel for the other car, though. Somewhere in this city on this cold night, someone must be feeling a little empty and sad, but not know why. We know why, though, don’t we. The chasm of emptiness is for the passive aggressive note that might have been.


I also wondered: do you ALWAYS SHOUT? Or, are the CAPITAL LETTERS an attempt to disguise your handwriting?


I suppose you never know whose car your Panadol box might find itself on. I might be a forensic handwriting expert who could take one look at your note and know what you had for breakfast this morning. I might have been on your Christmas card list, back in the days when you actually sent them. I might have looked at the note and thought ‘hey, isn’t that [insert your name]?’ It’s lucky you had the cunning foresight to disguise your handwriting by writing in capitals, just in case.


Maybe you aren’t even in pain. Maybe you don’t even need Panadol. Maybe it’s just smoke and mirrors; a diversion to cover your true identity. Maybe you weren’t even driving in the car park, and you’re really a stealth ninja whose shrewd planning for a supermarket heist was thwarted by my parking. In which case, I understand your passive-aggressive rage. If that is the case, I apologise.


I would love to know the answers to these questions, oh Passive Agressive Panadol Box person – these, and many more. But, I wouldn’t want to take up any more of your time.


Have a lovely evening.

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